Casca 30: Napoleon's Soldier

by Tony Roberts

  Fabvier drooled and leaked mucus much the same as before, but perhaps in greater quantity. He looked furtively out of his headscarf and hat, like some night beast in a cave, and giggled to himself occasionally. Casca thought his mind was going, but that was no surprise. What they had gone through and were suffering was enough to drive anyone crazy. Bausset plodded on ahead, a bear of a man, covered in snow and looking more like some creature from an age long gone. He had stopped talking to anyone a long time back and everyone avoided him if possible at their stops.

  But ahead strode Colonel Pegot, seemingly indestructible. Casca marveled at the man; he wasn’t the sort Casca would have thought would have gone on and on, yet here he was leading his unit onwards towards whatever awaited them up ahead. The men now gathered round the man, knowing he carried the eagle and colors, and he represented their salvation, their guiding light through this dark nightmare. Pegot knew that too, and he strode on, strong in the belief he had the lives of his men in his hands, which was indeed what he did.

  The night came and they collapsed wearily into a small camp with the others of the Corps. Prince Eugène came round making sure the men were all together and made a rousing speech but the men just gazed back apathetically. They were too far gone and only the hope that Napoleon somehow had some great trick up his sleeve kept them going. Otherwise they may as well lie down and die. The Russians were behind them, blundering on in the snow just as much as the French, but the Cossack scouts kept reporting their position and so the Russians closed in relentlessly.

  The next day the Corps resumed, the snow lighter but the temperature dropping all the time. The wind still came at them from the east, a knife-edged searing breath right from the depths of Valhalla, taunting and torturing them, defying them to carry on. The river was visible to the left, down a long slope, and the men gazed at it longingly, knowing it represented the way to safety.

  At midday they stopped and officers came round ordering the men into defensive positions. Casca frowned and turned about, facing the way they’d come, throwing up the snow into a ridge so he could crouch behind it out of much of the wind. Many of the other men did likewise, digging in through the powdery snow until they got to the iron-hard ground where they gave up. “What’s going on?” Begos asked, his face stiff with cold.

  “Damned if I know,” Casca admitted. “But I’ll bet someone will come round shortly to tell us. Can’t see us sitting here like this for nothing.”

  It seemed like the whole army was encamped in a huge semi-circle, and Casca could see behind him, to the north, a small village where activity was going on. The Emperor and his entourage were there, judging by the flags fluttering at the river’s edge. The river guarded their western flank and the men knelt, stood or lay in a large half circle looking out, ready for an attack.

  The afternoon dragged, men were beginning to mutter about waiting for death or complaining about the cold, and Casca kept on glancing back over his shoulder at the village. Word had come round that it was called Studzianka, a small riverside village unremarkable in any and every way, except it was where the Emperor was now situated, planning an escape.

  “They’re building a bridge!” someone suddenly said. The men all stood up and twisted round, staring at the village. Sure enough men could be seen wading into the freezing water and putting down wooden piles, supports for a bridge that was being constructed at the river’s edge. The buzz of excitement swept through the entire army and men actually started smiling for the first time in ages. Conversation washed through the ranks and suddenly they were all galvanized into activity. Faces became determined, losing the apathy and despair that had been there just moments before.

  “Christ, those poor bastards,” one of the unit said, looking at the engineers. “They’ll die through cold, surely!”

  “Either that or die on this side of the bank doing nothing,” Bausset responded. “They know they’ve no choice, and we’ve got our way out! Ha, fuck those Russian pigs, they’ll not catch us after all!”

  Casca grunted. The engineers were going to suffer, but, as Bausset had pointed out, they had little choice. Either they built the bridge or they’d die, along with the rest of the army. The engineer general, Eblè, must have been carrying some of the wood for some time. Studzianka would supply the rest and to hell with the poor villagers. He could see men ripping the village apart and taking the planks to the waterside where Eblè and his Dutch pioneers were sorting it out.

  “Right,” Casca said loudly, standing up, “time we earned those brave men time to make the bridge. Get ready to stop these Russians from breaking through. You’re the bravest army in Europe, now prove it to these people how the French, Italians and Croats can fight.”

  The men around grinned, white teeth sharp against the black faces. They knew without being told everything depended on them, but Casca was only concentrating their minds as one. They knew their job. They’d fight, and fight like devils. All their lives depended on them holding the line.

  A cannon shot heralded the approach of the Russians half an hour later, and the men ducked instinctively. A ball bounced off the snow and flew off into the air. A loud shout of hurrah! from ahead came to the waiting men and they cocked their muskets, ready. Bayonets pointed ahead and the faces of the soldiers reflected their determination not to crack.

  Into view came a huge wave of Russian soldiers, running through the snow, coats flapping and guns held high as they waded towards the waiting French. “Front rank,” an officer said calmly. The first row of men raised their muskets. “Take aim.” Casca was amongst them and he centered his aim on the man making directly for him, about eighty yards away. Seventy, sixty……fifty.

  “Fire!” came the order.

  A rippling crack rent the air and the white cloud of discharged powder billowed up, to be blown towards the river by the wind. Bullets spat out in a deadly arc, tearing into the leading ranks of Russians. Men span, toppled and fell, sending sprays of snow up and out. Casca’s target slowly turned to the right and sank to his knees, clutching his ribs, then he was swallowed up in the wave of men pouring towards them, yelling madly.

  The second row opened fire at thirty yards and more gaps were torn in the attacking ranks, dark shapes falling and disrupting the flow of men running towards them. Casca frantically bit off the paper edge of the cartridge and threw it down the barrel, ramming the contents hurriedly as the Russian soldiers closed the gap to ten yards. He could now make out individual features on their faces. The hammer was cocked and the last of the powder dropped into the pan. The muzzle came up and pointed at a man barely fifteen feet away. Casca squeezed the trigger and the gun bucked into his shoulder. The lead ball crashed through the Russian’s chest and flung the man back into his comrades, holding them up for a few seconds, long enough to allow him to stand up and receive the charge.

  He swung his musket, sending the butt scything round to strike the first man on the head as he reached him, felling him as though he’d been struck by a horse, then he reversed it quickly and met the second man bayonet on bayonet, knocking the enemy attack sideways and swinging the butt up into the luckless man’s jaw, snapping his head back and breaking teeth. Casca swung again and smashed the barrel and stock of his musket across the soldier’s head, knocking him flat.

  Men were screaming all round, each determined they would prevail, but the French, Italian and Croat troops had that extra determination, and they fought like madmen. Guns were knocked out of hands and hands closed round throats. Heads butted into enemy faces, teeth sank into throats. It was basic animal survival, the law of the jungle, and the trapped men were not going to fold. Casca took a charge from a bearded Russian and threw him to one side, using the man’s momentum to assist him. The man was thrown off his feet and landed heavily behind Casca. The Eternal Mercenary leaped after him and sank his bayonet deep into his chest, pinning the screaming man to the ground, pressing hard.

  Begos, just to Casca’s left, took a charge by simply kneeling
and allowing the Russian to run onto his bayonet, and Bausset to the right clubbed and kicked men back like a man possessed. Fabvier skulked behind them, ready with a skinning knife he’d produced, cutting throats whenever the opportunity arose. Another Russian came at Casca and the immortal soldier left his musket stuck in the corpse of the man he’d just slain and grabbed the enemy soldier, pulling him to the ground, wrenching his gun out of his grasp and throwing it away. The Russian was pinned to the ground and Casca knelt on his chest, throttling him, snarling in effort into his face. The Russian kicked and struggled but couldn’t break free and his struggles became weaker and weaker until he slumped and stared sightlessly up into the sky.

  Casca swung round, breathing heavily and pulled his musket and bayonet out of the body of the Russian. He looked for another opponent but the remaining enemy soldiers were running back to their lines, dismayed at the ferocity that their attack had been met with. Bodies littered the ground and the survivors glanced at each other in relief. They had held.

  A captain came round and called the unit together. “We’re going to cross this evening. Once the bridges are up we’re going to be called unit by unit and you’re to make your way down to the village and report to the provosts there. They have the order of march. Once over the river you’re to follow the directions of the officers on the far side where they’re forming a defensive perimeter there.”

  “What about the rearguard?” Casca asked.

  “Marshal Victor and his men will do that. General Wittgenstein and the main body of his army are pressing hardest to the north. That’s where the main danger is. You’ve done well in throwing back Wittgenstein’s advance guard here, but they’re just as exhausted as we are. The Prince doubts they have the strength or morale to have another go before night.”

  “How long will it take, Captain?” Begos asked.

  “To cross? It’s about a hundred metres,” the officer used the new measurements. “The enemy are forming up under Chichagov and his subordinate, Czaplic, on the other side. So far we’ve managed to fool them into believing we’re going to cross at Borisov, but once they find out it’s here we’re crossing they’ll be back.”

  Casca looked at the river. It was only about twenty metres wide and judging at the depths the engineers were working, about two deep. But the two banks were marshy and boggy, and the bridges had to extend far beyond both. The second bridge that was being built was to take the guns, wagons and heavy material, while the first was for the soldiers only. Gendarmes and provosts were massing at the entrance to the bridge with orders to allow only those troops under command and following the colors through. Anyone else who tried to get over would be thrown back. And if they persisted, then there was always the option to shoot them.

  “Won’t they hear the shooting here, sir?” Begos asked the captain.

  “Boy, Chichagov has no orders from Kutusov, according to prisoners we’ve taken. They don’t know where he is or what he wants. He doesn’t know what we’re going to do next! So he’s sitting on his backside over there not knowing what to do.” With that the lean, tall officer passed on to the next unit.

  Casca began cleaning his gun. The day was fading and the snow had ceased. The wind blew just as hard but the men now had strength and determination to get across, and no wind would change that. Shots could be heard to the south and Casca guessed this was the diversion. Once the main Russian force came up though everyone would have to retreat to the defensive perimeter. They’d scattered the advance units so now it would be a long night to wait and see if the main body turned up or not.

  They spent an uncomfortable night amongst the slopes leading down to Studzianka, the noise of the bridge being constructed incessant. No more attacks came and by morning the sight that greeted them was that the bridge was nearly finished. The engineers and pioneers had done an incredible job. Both bridges snaked across up and down, hardly a sight to inspire confidence in normal situations, but these weren’t normal times. Casca thought nothing looked as beautiful as those two warped, leaning and dangerously low bridges, built out of any old wood and destroyed village huts.

  The engineers were working in gangs, one group in the water while another was huddled round blazing camp fires, drying out. Their clothes were hung on makeshift frames next to the flames, while the shivering men sat wrapped in spare furs and rich woman’s clothes that had been looted from Moscow. Casca kept on checking behind him as the bridge grew, but nobody came for them. Midday approached, and the snow and the Russians stayed away, for which the waiting men were grateful. Then, just after noon, the first soldiers began crossing, and a general air of restlessness overcame the men still at the perimeter. They, too, wanted to be on that rickety bridge.

  “When do you think we’ll be called?” Begos asked, looking over his shoulder anxiously.

  “In time, Etienne. Just keep an eye ahead just in case the enemy come at us again.” Casca saw Colonel Pegot to the left, standing at the highest point of the defensive works they were manning. Once the Colonel got the word then that’d be the time to go. Pegot was watching the bridge impassively. He knew his men were eager to go, but for now they would have to wait.

  An hour later word came to withdraw, and the men cheered, only to be hurriedly shut up by worried officers. They walked down the slope to the outer edge of the village, and then were ordered to stop, dig in and wait. Another groan went up. So they were making a more defensible position, that’s all. Shooting broke out to the north and they could see the smoke from muskets, but the battle was over the edge of the rise that stood above the village. Marshal Victor’s men were there holding off Wittgenstein’s army. If they broke through it would be the finish of it all. The fidgeting grew and eyes became haunted and strained.

  Through the afternoon the pathetic procession of civilians came past, harrowed looks telling their own story. Left by the rapidly marching army as it made for Borisov and then Studzianka, they had largely been left to the ravages of the Cossacks. They ignored the French soldiers as they shuffled into the village and immediately sat down in apathetic groups and began making fires and cooking up stews and trying to steal from unwary soldiers. A couple of shots from the gendarmes and two corpses later they gave up trying to steal.

  The shooting died down to the north and as no one came running down towards the village all was assumed as being well, and the men relaxed. Now they waited for the word to go. As evening came, Colonel Pegot came up and looked out one last time over the slopes that led down to the village, littered with bodies, abandoned carriages, dead horses and the detritus of a disintegrating army. “Ah well,” he sighed, “it was a mad idea in the first place. Come on, it’s time to go.”

  Casca tapped Begos on the arm and stood up, shaking his stiff legs. At last! The others got up, brushing snow off their clothing. It had begun to fall again and the visibility had dropped as a result. Pegot led the few men he had left onto the approach road where Prince Eugène waited, dressed magnificently in full parade uniform topped with one of the biggest woman’s fur coats Casca had ever seen. It was a ludicrous yet spellbinding sight. Eugène nodded to himself and turned on his horse and led the few hundred remaining men under his command onto the bridge.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The bridge creaked and swayed, and Casca had to steady himself as he passed the first of the anchoring points on the near bank. Ahead, the plank bridge stretched, supported every ten feet or so with pillars that rose out of the ice-filled river like fingers clawing for air. The stark blackness of the wood contrasted sharply with the white of the snow covered fields, the falling snow from the sky and the ice floes that drifted down the river. The soldiers stepped gingerly onto the bridge, moving as they felt fit. A bridge was the only place a body of soldiers were permitted to not march in step, for the combined pace of a large body of men landing simultaneously on a bridge would be enough to bounce it clear off its supports and send it, and the soldiers, into the abyss below.

  Casca looked at t
he men with him to see how they were reacting. Begos was alert; he seemed the most intelligent of the group and Casca thought the youngster would be fine. It was still a fair march to Vilna but they were now ahead of the Russians and he who went the fastest would get there first. Fabvier was huddled deep into his clothing and muttered to himself from time to time. He’d seemingly retreated from the reality of the situation, which was probably how he coped with the madness of it all. Bausset went on the same as he always did, making sure he was distant from the rest as though he cared little for their suffering.

  Casca looked over his left shoulder at the retreating vista of the east bank of the Berezina. It represented the ending of something; the end of Russia and the nightmare it had become. He was leaving behind those who he’d befriended and loved. Paradis, the innocent and bright man who’d thought it glorious to take part in a historical campaign; Muralt, the dour professional who’d come through many campaigns for L’Empereur only to fall here. But he had to admit, the one he felt the loss most keenly was the scheming and manipulative Marianka. A Polish nationalist, dispossessed of her lands and heritage, fought to restore her family’s name and position, and to gain Poland its independence from the bigger nations. Given time, she would have turned on France, Casca realized, if France refused to grant Poland the right to exist. So Casca walked with tears stinging his eyes and regrets over those who had fallen he cared for.

  The bridge sank in a few places and halfway across it dipped beneath the water. The men gingerly sloshed through the icy water, hissing as the cold struck their legs, but they kept on going, not wishing to stop. Then they were up again and climbed to the far bank, over the marsh and then they were on firm ground and climbing up the steep slope that led to the trees beyond.

  Soldiers stood on guard warily. They were looking to the south, where Chichagov was supposed to be, but nothing stirred. Other soldiers could be seen amongst the trees prepared, and Casca wondered if they were to join them. The gendarme in charge of the far bank saluted Prince Eugène and exchanged a few words and then Eugène was leading his men to the right and into the interior away from the last physical barrier between them and Vilna.