Napoleon's Soldier Read online

  “Colonel. If you object to my presence here please send your complaint to Prince Eugène himself. It is his express wish that liaison officers such as myself are appointed to all regiments. I have been assigned to this regiment and will remain here until the Prince himself orders it!” Wolinski stood erect, facing the dusty Frenchman defiantly.

  Pegot snorted. “Then we will make your stay here as comfortable as possible during the time you remain. Please, feel free to use our facilities.” He gestured at his adjutant. “Now, where is the map of this damned region? Where exactly are we headed?”

  The map was brought out and the officers, Wolinski included, pored over it. Ahead, a few days march down the road, stood the city of Vilna, where the forward Russian supply depot was located. Pegot nodded. “It is there we are heading. Captain Wolinski, you will tell me what we are to expect en route to Vilna, and what we can expect once we reach it.”

  So the Polish officer told them and the Frenchmen listened, not really appreciating what was in store for them. Wolinski cared little for that; he had his own orders and what the French did or wanted to do was of little consequence to him. For now he would put up with their petty mannerisms, hopefully he would be finished with them sooner rather than later.

  * * *

  The road was dusty, the sun beat down fiercely and no sight of any shade cheered the flagging spirits of the soldiers as they tramped eastwards along the dried mud that passed for the road to Vilna. The laughing, singing and chattering had ceased and the men were now merely concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Off to the north another dust cloud rose high into the air and word was that this was another column led by General Davout.

  Casca had heard plenty of rumors and idle gossip over the past few weeks. The French had gathered an enormous army to settle the Russian campaign quickly, and these had been grouped into corps, each of which had its own route of march so that nobody would get mixed up with the wrong unit. Expectations higher up was that the Russian commander, the exotically named Mikhail Bogdanovitch Barclay de Tolly, would defend Vilna where he would be crushed by superior and converging numbers. The flanks were to be guarded by Prussians in the north and Austrians in the south. The French strategists, led by Napoleon, believed that once Barclay’s army was destroyed, the weak and feckless Tsar Alexander would sue for peace and be brought into the French continental system designed to deny Great Britain any trade, thus forcing the British to the peace table.

  It was a lot of supposition, Casca thought. He knew the Russians better than most and the army certainly wouldn’t give up unless commanded to do so by the Tsar, and Alexander had been making fairly bellicose noises of recent weeks from his palace in St. Petersburg. Casca trudged along, head bowed, thinking furiously. Many of the new recruits were too young for this campaign which would test even the most battle hardened veterans. Nobody had seemed to take seriously the distances involved; having put everything into the belief the Russians would obligingly stand and fight where the French wanted them to. The supply system was haphazard, which, Casca reckoned, would cause bigger problems than the Russian army ever would. He looked round but Marianka was nowhere in sight. She would be riding in the column’s wake with all the other followers. He still wondered where the hell she’d got the horse from and where she’d learned to ride. She was comfortable in the saddle, that was for sure.

  The other thing that bugged him was the promise to return the icons to the church of Mała Wolka. All he knew was that he was supposed to find a big man called The something Rose. What a name! He wondered why anyone would want to be called that. It sounded English; at least it was a strong possibility. The Rose was a symbol of England. He would have to look to see if any Englishmen were with the column.

  These thoughts occupied him until they fell out, gratefully collapsing on either side of the raised mud track, viewing the featureless horizon without much enthusiasm. Paradis scratched his ribs and sighed heavily. “Is this what it’s like here, in Russia? Endless flatlands? Nothing to see, not even a tree! And where’s the villages?”

  Casca wriggled, getting himself comfortable. “Long way to the next village, and it won’t be worth a sou. No food, little water. We’ll be needing the sutlers before long, mark my words.”

  Bausset belched and laid out flat, arms behind his head. “Ah, stop your moaning, Casca. I’m enjoying this. The weather’s lovely, there’s nobody to get in our way and we’re on our way to yet another victory. Vive La France!”

  Fabvier sniggered, picking his nose. “No food? I noticed a rabbit just now. Give me half an hour and I’ll come back with something. You girls are all the same. If it doesn’t drop into your laps you complain. You’re worse than the aristos we executed back in ’91.”

  “Shut up you stinking little cut-purse,” Bausset boomed, a smile on his face. “If you’re so good then go get us something to eat. I could eat a horse!”

  Etienne Begos stood looking at the men in perplexity. The ground was dry, sandy and loose. The grass was yellowing and ants scurried about. He wasn’t sure where to place his ass. “Hey,” Fabvier waved at a clear place around him, “come sit here my pretty.”

  Begos scowled and looked elsewhere. The men laughed. Finally he sat gingerly by the roadside next to Muralt who was keeping out of the banter. “It’s so dusty,” he finally said, “we’ll be filthy in no time.”

  “Fabvier is filthy already,” Bausset replied, “but that’s normal for him.”

  “Hah, you ugly lump,” the poacher said, “you’ll eat my catches nonetheless. I’m even willing to share my lice with you, see how generous I am!” Begos shuddered and looked away.

  Casca pushed his cap back from his sweating forehead and stood up. The land wouldn’t alter much for hundreds of miles, so he concentrated on looking around for the other columns. He spotted two to the north, a long way off. They appeared to be heading directly for Vilna while this column was to the south. It would seem they were not going to the city but screening the south. That would please the men! He decided to keep silent about that. He looked ahead, along the long line of sweating men sat along the road edge and could see nothing beyond them. Behind came the long dusty line of suppliers, hangers-on and whores. They moved slower than the army, and the army moved at its own pace. Those behind would have to keep up or drop behind.

  They soon set off again and for the next few days marched east. A few men fell by the wayside, feet blistered or having had enough and wanted no more of the glorious war against the perfidious Russians, and they either slunk off west and homeward bound, or joined the growing band of undisciplined and leaderless rabble that preyed on the weak, helpless or unsuspecting. Whether the victim was French, Russian or Polish, it mattered not. Food and money was what they wanted and they’d often fall about each other over a tasty enough prize.

  It was the third day that three of these furtive hangers-on tried to rob Marianka, but it was their bad luck that Casca was with her at that time. The girl had managed to acquire a few baskets and hung them from the horse’s saddle, placing fruit, vegetables and a few other odds and ends in them. How she’d got hold of these Casca didn’t know and got a non-committal answer to his questioning. He was becoming a little irritated at her for not being forthcoming about what she did, and was starting to wonder if Muralt was right after all. Was she trouble?

  “Where did you grow up?” he asked her as the darkness fell, cradling the woman in his arms. They were lying in the grass looking up at the sky. The distant sounds of others eating, talking or tending their animals or equipment faintly carried to them out of the darkness.

  “Ostraleka,” she replied softly, “or should I say close to it. Father had a farm and I grew up on it. Then when I was sixteen there was a fire. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay, okay,” Casca stroked her hair. He looked at the Polish girl. Maybe being a farm girl explained why she was good at riding horses. Then maybe not. He held his breath; something had alerted him cl
ose by. A twig snapping? A stone being dislodged? He wasn’t sure but something – or somebody – was close by in the darkness creeping up on them and that meant trouble. He squeezed Marianka’s arm and released her, pushing her aside so he could roll over and get to his feet, slowly and silently as he could. He had no weapon save his bayonet in its sheath against his left side.

  Creeping up low to the ground were three men, about ten yards away. They had staked out the lone horse with the tempting food in the open baskets, and it was too good an opportunity to miss. Their unspoken leader, a thick set former soldier who had deserted the day the army crossed the Nieman, was in the center with his two compatriots, one a Polish woodsman out for an easy living, the other a piece of scum from Ostraleka who had followed the army hoping for riches dropped in its wake, on either side. They were armed with clubs and knives and were prepared to injure or kill for the food.

  Casca crouched still, Marianka behind him, alerted by the Eternal Mercenary’s change in attitude. He scanned the blackness around him, ignoring the pin pricks of the camp fires off to left and right. Ahead was a blank area and he was sure it was from here the noise had come. He slowly turned his head, squinting slightly. Peripheral vision would be what he needed now. He drew in his breath shallowly and held it for a moment, before exhaling long and slow.

  A movement to the right; man-sized and furtive. Someone was creeping up on them! I’ll get the bastard, he thought. He centered his attention on the shape, now faintly discernible against the night. It was moving close to the ground, towards the horse standing no more than five yards from Casca. Casca sucked in a deep breath, and tensing his muscles, sprang suddenly for the dark shape, his shoulder striking the man high up on the chest and the unknown man was hurled backwards to the ground, Casca on top of him.

  As the man’s breath exploded out with a mighty ooff! two more shapes rose up close by, objects in their hands, and bore down on Casca. “Oh shit,” Casca uttered, realizing he was in bigger trouble than he first thought. Smashing his fist into the face of the man underneath him, he sprang up to meet the first attacker, blocking the downward swing of the arm holding the knife, for that was what he now saw it to be.

  Marianka gasped as the second man came in on Casca’s left, weapon raised high. Casca kicked forward, his army issue boot striking the second man’s left leg, and turned to meet the third man who stabbed up from a low horizontal position. Casca grabbed the wrist, more by luck than judgment, and wasted no time in niceties. He was being attacked with deadly intent, and he didn’t want Marianka hurt, so he had to take no chances. Twisting mightily with both hands, he snapped the third man’s arm, which cracked with a sickening sharp noise. The man screamed and fell to his knees, writhing in agony. The second man scythed a blow at chest height, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg, but missed.

  Meanwhile the first man had got to his feet, dazed from the blow, and decided a basket load of apples wasn’t worth getting injured or killed for, and staggered off into the night. Casca now faced just the one man, and they sized each other up. “We’re hungry” the assailant said in a French accent. “We were only going to have a few apples!”

  “Sure,” Casca said darkly, “and kill the two of us in the bargain. Otherwise why the knives? Now either get lost or I’m going to make you regret coming here.”

  The attacker, deciding that he was the only one armed, felt brave enough to take on the unarmed Frenchman protecting the food, and stabbed for the neck, intending to open out the jugular. Casca smashed his arm aside and stepped inside the reach of the knifeman, stunning him with a punch to the temple. He sent a second fist into his stomach and as the man folded over, sent the edge of his hand down hard on his exposed neck.

  The attacker collapsed as if a bridge had fallen on him. This left the man with a broken arm, still crying out in pain. “Shut up,” Casca said and sent a mighty fist into his jaw, sending him falling back onto the ground, out cold.

  Marianka stood by the horse, her hands to her face, staring at Casca. “Dear God,” she breathed, “you’re incredible! Three men and you took them all. You must be awful in battle!”

  Casca grinned in the darkness. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Come on, we’d better go from this place before these charmers come to. You’d better camp with us and in the morning ride back to the main sutlers’ camp.”

  Marianka squeezed his arm and allowed herself to be led back towards the French army, half sleeping in the near distance. A picket challenged Casca as he came up to him. “Hey, what was that noise?”

  “Foxes mating,” Casca grunted.

  “Uh?”

  “You from the city?” Casca said, testily. The sentry nodded. Casca sighed. “Well, foxes make a hell of a noise when they hump. Take my word for it.” He led Marianka and the horse past the open-mouthed guard.

  They saw no more of the three would-be thieves and Casca surmised they had slunk back to find easier pickings. Marianka wasn’t bothered any more and she soon became the platoon’s favorite supplier, always finding enough food for the grateful men at a price that undercut her competition. A few made comments but a scowl from Casca was enough to deter them and they were satisfied that the other units could be fleeced without Marianka interfering.

  As they approached the southern suburbs of Vilna on the 28th, the sky turned dark. Some of it was due to the smoke that floated up from the city as the Russians torched the supply depot before abandoning it, but mostly it was from an ominous black cloud that came on them from the east, and within minutes had unleashed a torrent of freezing cold rain that caught them all by surprise.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The shock of the cold stunned the soldiers. They had enjoyed a week of sweltering heat towards the end of June, so they had no inkling that the storm that unleashed itself on them would be so ferocious and so cold. Casca gasped as the first wave of rain flung itself at him, borne on a mindlessly strong wind, then staggered to one side, blinded by the downpour.

  The men cried out in shock and dismay, and clothing was soaked within seconds. The road was jammed with soldiers running this way and that and wagons came to a halt as horses took the shock of a cold they weren’t protected against. Officers appeared on the scene and screamed through the shrieking of the wind to get the men off the road, and began pushing the slower ones out of their way as they tried to fight a path through towards Vilna.

  Horses began dropping, frozen, their hearts stopped with the plunge in temperature. Casca blundered into a small copse and wiped his face with his hand, looking round at the scene of chaos. Paradis came lurching up to him, his eyes wide in fright. “What’s going on? Is this a devil come to drive us out of Russia?”

  “A devil of a storm, that’s for certain,” Casca said, watching the scene helplessly. He’d known bad Russian weather but nothing like this in the summer. It was a freak of nature and it had hit the French senseless. Wagons and carts blocked the road, their horses in heaps still harnessed. He turned to peer through the maelstrom of water to see if he could see Marianka, but she was nowhere in sight. He hoped she had found shelter and was caring for her horse.

  He saw an officer flailing at the panic stricken men, trying to clear his path while his horse whinnied in fright, then toppled over as it gave up the struggle. The officer fell out of sight to be swallowed up in the confusion.

  “Shouldn’t we go help them?” Paradis queried, shivering.

  “How? It’ll take more than the two of us to get that lot out of there. Those wagons aren’t going anywhere either. It’ll be days before the road’s cleared. Stay here in shelter. This can’t last for very long.”

  Within minutes others had joined them in the shelter of the trees, most of them Casca’s unit. Fabvier hunched miserably against a tree trunk and grimaced, water dripping down onto his face from his soaked cap. “What a summer! Is this normal in this place?”

  “No,” Casca said. He hoped Marianka had made shelter in the confusion. “Anyone missing from t
he platoon?”

  “Who knows?” Muralt replied, his teeth chattering. “But here comes Caporal Auvrey.”

  Auvrey pushed into the copse and peered about himself. “Ah, there you are,” he said, catching sight of the miserable wet men. “Come on, out! We’re to clear the road of wagons and horses. Hurry up!”

  Moaning, grumbling and utterly miserable, the men trudged reluctantly out of shelter back into the teeth of the driving rain and made for the slippery road, a scene of absolute devastation.

  They were watched by a drenched Marianka, standing next to her horse. She’d had a blanket draped around the beast’s back and sides, and the baskets were resting on the ground close by. She had taken cover in the wood as soon as the storm had broken and now watched as the French struggled to clear the mess. She made no move to help, for it wasn’t her place to do so. She wouldn’t lift a finger anyway; her task was to remain alive and keep anonymously within the ranks of the camp followers. A sutler’s identity suited her. She watched as wagons were unhitched from the corpses of the poor horses and rolled off the road. One was not too far from her and she decided that this would suit her purposes even better. Now she would be able to gather more supplies and carry more. This would make her more valuable to the French army. She smiled through the rain.

  * * *

  The rain vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving the French army 25,000 horses lighter. It was a devastating blow and Napoleon ordered the army to rest at Vilna for a couple of weeks to recover. He was also surprised the Russians hadn’t made a fight for the city, as it was a fairly important supply point for the army. Now he would have to chase it deeper into enemy territory where he was sure it would turn and fight. Then he would be able to destroy it.

  Orders went out and the men, rested and refreshed after three weeks stay outside Vilna, were assembled and made sure they all had their equipment battle ready. The feeling that a battle wasn’t far away ran through the ranks and excitement rose.