Casca 30: Napoleon's Soldier Page 2

  Paradis pursed his lips. He really didn’t have a clue what his friend was saying. “I’m sure l’empereur will have thought of that.”

  Casca grunted, shook his head and resumed cleaning the barrel of his Charleville musket.

  “So, Casca, when were you in Russia?” came the voice of Louis Muralt, a calm, thoughtful man. Muralt was the oldest of the unit, or at least that was what everyone believed. They wouldn’t have believed Casca was 1800 years old. Nobody would. Muralt talked sense but he lacked an imagination. He was an officer’s dream; a soldier who carried out orders without question.

  “I can’t remember,” Casca replied, carefully cleaning his musket. “Too long ago to remember, that’s for sure! Anyone here campaigned at Friedland?” There were mute shakes of heads. Friedland was five years previously and was the last time France and Russia clashed. The Russians had been badly beaten and it had resulted in a purge of officers and an overhaul of tactics. Casca was interested to see if these changes had had time to take effect. “Well, I was. Spoke to some prisoners who weren’t very educated but they told me much of the country beyond the border. Believe me, it won’t be easy.”

  “So are we getting replacements before we cross the border?” Paradis asked. Many of the younger soldiers in the unit had vanished en route, many deserting, some falling ill. The older soldiers were tougher and more easily able to bear the rigors of a march.

  “Word is we’re getting a new batch this week,” Auvrey said, joining in the conversation. “Some are even joining this happy band,” the corporal laughed, amused at his own ironic words. Nobody else joined in. Auvrey cleared his throat and cast his eyes over the squad. Everyone seemed to be busy, so he nodded and walked off. Paradis gestured rudely at his back.

  “Don’t be too quick to hate him,” Casca said to his friend, “he may save your life in Russia. In battle you’ll do as he says and rally to him.”

  Paradis dismissed Auvrey with a wave of his hand. “He shouldn’t be so officious. What is he, a general? No, a caporal! He has delusions, that one.” Paradis grunted and examined his bayonet critically. He put it back into its sheath and stared up at the sky. It was cloudless. “Ahh! This beats farming, I can tell you!”

  Casca snorted in amusement. The naive Paradis would receive a shock in a few weeks, if things went the way the Eternal Mercenary expected they would. Just then a shadow furtively passed through the trees behind the two men and a small figure appeared, grinning through a gap-toothed mouth, a dead hare dangling from his hand. “Voila!” he announced, “something to eat tonight besides the foul army rations.”

  “Pierre Fabvier,” Casca sighed, “one day Colonel Pegot is going to have you shot for theft and poaching. You know the penalties.”

  Fabvier, a thin, wiry man with parchment-like skin, cackled. “Hah! The good Colonel has too many other things to worry about! Besides, I’m too good to be caught by anyone. Hare?”

  Casca laughed. “Just watch yourself, Pierre. Of course, you cook, we eat.”

  While Fabvier began preparing the hare, Casca got up and slung his musket round his shoulder, having finished cleaning it, and slowly wandered away from the camp fires and groups of men and sought a place of solitude. Often he needed to find such a spot and think. A man such as he who couldn’t die couldn’t afford to get too close to others; he hated seeing friends die, as mortals always would, so he’d rather not get too attached to anyone. This was one of the worst aspects of living forever. He so much wanted to die, to end this long torment, but until the Second Coming, whenever that would be, he would have to endure and be part of the endless wars that raged through man’s history.

  A soldier he was, a warrior. He did this best of all, and so he always seemed to answer the call of combat and join some army for a cause, an ideal, a way to settle some argument. What this argument was over he wasn’t quite sure, but he certainly didn’t want to fight for the damned Russians. Their poor soldiers served for 25 years and most never saw that out; their conditions were appalling and many were brutally beaten or even sodomized by their officers. Rape was commonplace. Most of the Russian soldiers came from peasant and serf background and it was like a funeral when they had to leave their village; nobody would ever see them again.

  So the Russian private fought with no prospect of ever surviving his term, and they often just stood and fought where they stood. Only an order from their officers would take them away from where they were fighting. The Russian officers were something else; privileged and from upper society, they had no idea about soldiering – most of them. At least the French army had better officers; many had come up through the ranks and been promoted on merit, and this is something that made the British and Russians and Austrians gape in shock. And apart from the British, the French had beaten the lot.

  So now here they were on the border of Russia. Casca had no real idea why, but Napoleon had decreed the army was to attack and so the biggest army Casca had ever seen, at least to his memory – la Grande Armee – was gathering in Poland ready to do l’empereur’s bidding. Casca worried about the uniform. Knowing how appalling the Russian winters could be, and he couldn’t see a campaign being short enough to end before the winter set in, what he and his comrades were wearing was woefully short of what would be necessary for even a basic survival.

  Casca was wearing the classic French army uniform. A cut-away blue coat covered an under jacket buttoned up the front of white. His breeches were also white and on his head would be worn in battle and on parade a black bearskin shako. At other times they wore a flat cloth forage cap. He had a bandolier running diagonally from his left shoulder to his right hip, and on this hung a giberne, a stiff leather case which carried cartridges, gun oil and other cleaning equipment. His pack, lying on the grass where he’d left it, was of stiffened cow hide which carried a variety of items; shirts, stockings, gaiters, shoes, a sewing kit, flour, bread and other useful items. His overcoat was rolled up and tied to the top of the pack.

  But the business item he carried was his 1.54m long Charleville musket, an effective weapon up to around 100 yards, and this was what he would look after the best of all. A man who had lived 1800 years knew how vital the weapon of choice was. Without it a man wasn’t a soldier, merely one of the vast horde of camp followers who swarmed around the army on campaign. Casca snorted and looked over a field to where a huge number of people were settling down. Hangers-on, leeches. They picked up the things war dropped, coins, equipment, treasure, plunder. Soldiers lying on the field were stripped and looted, many even before they died, and Casca had seen instances where a wounded man was murdered if he put up a struggle.

  Camp whores and sutlers were to be found amongst these people too, and they did a roaring trade. Many soldiers married whores, and they in turn looked to be protected by an officer, for received riches and comfort as a result. Sometimes they were left a dowry if the officer died in battle and was unmarried. Casca despised many of these followers; they were just as dangerous to the army as the enemy, and sometimes they were the enemy. He gripped his musket strap and had a feeling that before this campaign was out, he’d have to use it on one or more of them as well as the Russians.

  The thought gave him a sense of foreboding.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The fair-haired woman tried to bring her breathing under control. Her eyes darted to left and right, looking for danger. It wasn’t too far away, she knew, and she crouched in a grove of trees sheltering from her pursuer. She couldn’t see him but she knew he was close. She was young, nineteen years of age, and wore a simple dress of linen, off white in color. Her skin was streaked with sweat and dirt, and her blue eyes were wide in her white face.

  She had been running for some time now, and saw the French army as the perfect place to hide. All she needed was to slip into a place that could guarantee her anonymity, and maybe then she would be safe, but she needed to leave Poland for her own sake. Wherever the French army was headed, some said India, others Constantinople, othe
rs again Moscow, it would do.

  She heard a crack of a twig snapping behind her and she jumped, startled. With a sob she burst out of the trees and ran as hard as her painful lungs and legs would allow. Ahead she saw a growth of long grass and a few more trees and focussed her attention on getting there. Suddenly she heard pounding of feet and turned to see a large man bearing down on her, a snarl on his face. With a squeak of terror she tried to increase her pace but her body was almost exhausted. She ran another ten, twenty paces, then the ground dipped slightly and she lost her footing, falling forward in an untidy sprawl.

  As she fell she emitted a shriek, and as she landed a dark shadow loomed over her and she felt her heart skip a beat.

  “At last,” a deep labored voice said in a menacing tone, “I have caught you.”

  The woman turned and tried to crawl away from the figure, but he reached down and hauled her up by the front of her dress which tore slightly. “Please, please....”

  “Your silence is all I am to ensure,” the man growled and closed his hands round her throat. “This won’t take long.”

  The woman thrashed and struggled but it was futile. She felt her blood racing in her ears and her vision began to darken.

  Suddenly the grip loosened and she was dropped to the ground where she sat, grasping her painful neck. Another man had arrived and was holding her attacker’s wrists, glaring at him. A strong man with a scar on his face, running from the corner of his eye to his mouth. A French soldier! She remained where she was, too weak to move.

  “What the hell are you doing to that girl?” Casca demanded.

  “None of your business, Frenchman!” the attacker snapped, equally surprised that the soldier spoke to him in Polish and that he was as strong as himself.

  “I’m not French,” Casca replied, then looked down at the heaving woman. “Why was he trying to kill you?”

  The woman shook her head. She was too terrified to reply. Casca returned his attention to the man. He had heard the shriek and seen the attack. It was enough for him to intervene. “Okay my friend, you’d better talk or I might get angry. What was this all about?”

  “Go away and fuck Russians,” the Pole growled. “This woman is my business and not yours! You talk like a Cossack whore,” he added.

  “Not the most intelligent thing to say, you ugly swine,” Casca retorted and sent a fist plumb into the center of the Pole’s nose, splintering it. The man’s head jerked back and he staggered away, clutching his ruined face, gurgling in pain. Casca reached out a hand to the woman. “Come on, I’ll take you somewhere safe.”

  The woman hesitated, looked at the Pole, and screamed in alarm. The Pole had brought out a large knife from his tattered waistcoat, and was now advancing on Casca, blood dripping down his chin and murder in his eyes. Casca saw the danger and snapped into an unthinking martial move, honed by centuries of fighting. One kick scythed up against the attacker’s elbow, numbing it and sending the knife spinning up and away. As Casca’s foot hit the ground he moved, his right arm a blur, arcing up and connecting with the man’s chin. The Pole’s head snapped back and fell, striking the ground heavily. Casca stepped forward, noting he’d fallen close to where the knife had dropped, and the Pole rose once more, knife in his fist, murder in his eyes. Casca wasted no more time. He grabbed the knife arm, pinning it, then slammed his other fist down onto the exposed neck of his adversary. The Pole grunted oddly, and his knees gave way and the man sank to the earth, staring into nothingness.

  As he hit the ground, Casca turned back to the woman. “Come on, I’ll take you to my unit. You’ll be safe there away from this scum.” He picked the woman up, noting automatically how her breasts bulged out of her torn dress. Admiring her physical assets, he smiled encouragingly. In another place, another situation, he wouldn’t mind having a roll with this wench. “What’s your name? Mine’s Casca.”

  “Marianka,” she said, clutching her torn dress. She wondered if the kindly Frenchman who spoke accented but perfect Polish would really be able to protect her from the danger she was in, but she decided he would be the way out for her. Until he outlived his usefulness to her, she would make herself useful to him. She needed his protection and he looked like he could take care of himself. Added to that he spoke fluent Polish – with a Cossack accent which intrigued her – meant he would probably spot any more danger to her from the right quarter. It was enough. She smiled and snuggled up to him. “And you’re my hero,” she added. “You need me to look after your needs? I can cook, sew, make your bed. I can take care of anything you wish.” The unspoken promise was clear; if Casca needed a woman, then she was happy to oblige.

  “What about him?” Casca jerked a thumb at the prone man, lying in the grass.

  “He’s a hired assassin; I’m running from a man who says I stole from him. But what have I got on me?” She displayed her poor clothing, and it was clear there was very little it could conceal.

  “And the man you’re running from?”

  “Ah,” Marianka shook her head as they walked towards the trees where she had been making for, “I’m not going to tell. Best he is left behind; he’s too powerful and I think the best thing is you don’t know who. Let’s leave this horrible business behind?”

  “Alright, woman, but if this causes me trouble I’m going to want the name or I’ll throw you out. You look after my camp needs and I’ll protect you. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Marianka smiled and looked at her half-exposed breasts. “I think I need to find a sewing kit first.”

  “I have one,” Casca smiled. “Come on, back to my camp and I’ll get it.” They walked the short distance to where the rest were resting, bringing a great deal of interest from the watching men. Casca glared at anyone who showed more than a passing interest in the woman who clutched his arm tight as they walked to his place by the trees. Paradis and Fabvier stood up in surprise and made a space for Marianka, while Muralt shook his head in despair and ignored her, carrying on with his equipment cleaning. Casca did the introductions and he’d just finished when Caporal Auvrey returned.

  “What is this woman doing here, Longue?”

  Casca stood up and saluted. He was always punctilious and correct when dealing with his superiors, something none of them could fault and it irritated them, as Casca clearly had no real respect for those he saw as fools, Auvrey included. “Caporal, I have saved this woman’s life and have taken her under my protection.”

  “But she’s half dressed!” Auvrey said in disapproval. He feared she may distract the men.

  “About to fix that, Caporal.” Casca picked out his sewing kit from his giberne. “One repair coming up. I’ll make her respectable.” There came a few raucous laughs from the men sat watching and Auvrey looked round sharply to see who it had been but the men were keeping straight faces, albeit with some difficulty.

  Marianka smiled at Casca and pushed her chest forward, bringing a few sharp intakes of breath from the watchers and one or two groans of jealousy. Casca grinned and held up a cotton thread, slowly licked it and winked at the woman before threading the needle. Marianka held his gaze and watched as Casca began repairing the ripped portion of her dress. Once or twice his hands brushed her breasts and she pressed them against his touch. Casca carried on, seemingly oblivious, but inside he was getting turned on. This woman was heading for a night she wouldn’t forget. That was, if he could find some place of privacy!

  Auvrey stood close by, frowning severely. At last Casca finished, tied the end of the thread in a knot and bit off the end holding the needle. He stood back and nodded in satisfaction. Marianka pulled at her dress, outlining her top even more, and smiled. “Perfect. Thank you Casca.”

  Auvrey cleared his throat. “Madame, I think you should find quarters along with the other camp followers over in that field. The men are to parade shortly and your presence will not be permitted.”

  Casca nodded. “You’ll have to do as many of these soldier’s women do; camp separately.” Marianka’s
face fell. “Don’t worry,” Casca said, “I won’t be far and some of the men here have women at that camp. I’ll go talk to them and maybe we can take you to be with them. They’ll look after you.”

  They did as Casca had suggested, and thanks to a couple of kindly country women from France whose husbands were in Casca’s platoon, Marianka was settled in fairly quickly. Casca returned to the unit to face a sea of jealous faces. “Shit, that woman has everything!” Fabvier exclaimed, practically drooling. “You’re one lucky bastard, mon ami! Want me to find a special dress for her? Maybe you’ll let me try her out first, just in case she’s got the pox?” Casca threw a wild and exaggerated punch that Fabvier easily ducked, as was intended.

  “She’d definitely get the pox if you had her!” Paradis stated. “But what a woman. Merde, I’d fight the entire Russian army if it meant she was the prize!”

  “You’ll get nothing but trouble from her, Casca,” Louis Muralt said, shaking his head. “You’ll have every other man jealous of you, and a woman like that can only attract trouble. Bear my advice and let her go.”

  Others offered advice or observations, and Casca waved them all away. He reckoned he knew enough already, and in his time had loved – and lost – more women than a horny sixteen year old could ever dream of. Marianka was a woman troubled, that was for sure, and there was something not quite right about her story. But the truth may well come out in time, he reasoned. If it didn’t, well hell, it didn’t matter. That man was trying to strangle her back there, and her quick explanation clearly was made up. He wasn’t too bothered in finding out right away; time would give him a chance to do that. Time! He snorted. Time was something he had in abundance. It had made him patient over the years, and now he was prepared to wait for something to happen when before he wouldn’t have.