The Officer's Prey

CHAPTER 13

PART of the French infantry had deployed in line and was resolutely moving forward. At the head, lieutenants and captains were flourishing their swords or using them to point towards the enemy and exhort their men. They advanced with colours flying and drums beating. It was impossible not to think about death. Some were praying quietly; others humming martial tunes. They touched their amulets: a fiancée’s lock of hair, a wedding ring, a letter, a bonesetter’s charm. The loudmouths were boasting, ‘They still ain’t going to get me, just like at Eylau!’ ‘Here I am!’ ‘Stick around, green coats! I want my Légion d’Honneur, I do!’

Margont, at the head of his company, was for his part struck by the beauty of the world around him: the soft green of the plain, the darker green of the woods, the blue sky. What a shame about the heavy roar of gunfire. His blue eyes took in the greenery opposite. He remembered a childhood friend, Catherine: an adolescent love affair they had shared one summer in the countryside and broken off the following one. In between had been ten months of painful waiting and an exchange of letters riddled with spelling mistakes. What could have become of her? She was probably bringing up children while he was perhaps going to die like a dog in some foreign place.

He suddenly felt a violent shove in the back and fell flat on the ground. Ten or twelve soldiers slumped down behind him. Margont, staggered, still had no idea of what had just happened. A soldier rushed towards him. People were shouting. A black cannonball rolled swiftly along the grass, not far away. Another bounced off the butt of a musket lying on the ground, making it explode. Saber, wearing white gloves, lifted his friend up, grabbing him under the arms.

‘Are you all right, Quentin? Are you hurt at all?’

Margont managed to get up unaided. He was covered in dirt. Next to him a sergeant was dusting down his uniform.

‘Those Russian bastards! They think we’re already dead and buried, but we’ll show ’em.’

The line of infantrymen was filing past them. The woods were flecked with puffs of white smoke, large and small. Many Frenchmen were already strewn over the plain. Some were groaning as they tried to get up. Others were waving their arms pitifully or seemed to be asleep.

‘This time we won’t be tilting at windmills, eh, Quentin?’

Saber’s face wore a triumphant smile but Margont could read the fear in his friend’s eyes. Saber was putting on a self-assured air that would have charmed many a Parisienne. He was inventing his own stereotype, that of Lieutenant Saber the intrepid officer of the Imperial Army. He felt intuitively that over the years stereotypes sometimes became truths accepted by everyone.

Margont picked up his sword and the two officers resumed marching. The round shot and shells had made breaches in the line. Colonel Delarse, on horseback, was already twenty paces ahead of the brigade. A shell sprayed the infantrymen following him with splinters.

‘The devils can fire all right,’ muttered Saber, putting on a brave face.

The drummers beat the charge. The soldiers knew that music well enough! The line rushed forward, shouting. A corporal near Margont doubled up, clutching his abdomen. He did not fall but remained bent in this position, motionless.

A fusilier let out a squeal and began to limp, repeating, ‘They got me, the bastards!’

Saber pushed him forward with a violent kick up the backside. ‘Actors belong in the theatre. Real soldiers are in the front line.’

A lieutenant carrying the eagle standard was hit in the torso. Staggering, he handed over the precious banner to one of the supply sergeants of the flag escort, just before falling to his knees gazing at his wound. Two soldiers turned round to flee. The one faking an injury immediately did likewise.

Margont pointed his sword straight ahead. ‘Gentlemen, you’re wrong. The enemy is in this direction.’

Saber struck one of them on the thigh with the flat of his sword. ‘Get back into the ranks!’

The three men obeyed. Saber was often very forceful in driving away fear in others, probably because he also thought it effective for himself. The line was now followed by a large straggling group of soldiers, out of breath or slightly wounded. At last they reached the wood. Then, for the first time since the start of the campaign, Margont sighted the Russian infantrymen. They were dressed in white trousers, green coats and black shakos. The officers had cocked hats with white plumes, worn in the Napoleonic style, or caps. The Russians were squaring up to the French, supported against tree trunks as they took aim or reloaded, or massed in the line waiting for contact, bayonets pointing straight in front. Others were gathered around the gunners, who were hurriedly reloading.

The impact of the wave of French soldiers breaking against the wall of Russians was fearsome. A Russian colonel on horseback lowered his sabre and shouted something out when the French were a few paces away from his infantrymen. The enemy line opened fire, disappearing amidst coils of white smoke to the accompaniment of thunderous noise.

The French fell to the ground on all sides. Delarse’s horse was killed outright. The beast crashed to the ground before rolling on to its side, crushing the colonel’s thigh so that he clenched his teeth to stifle his cries of pain. Soldiers hurried to his rescue. The animal was quickly turned over and, as soon as Delarse was on his feet again, he limped back to his men. Butts were coming down on jaws, bayonets and sabres being thrust into flesh relentlessly, muskets being fired at close range. Margont, Saber and a few ordinary soldiers set upon the defenders of an artillery gun. Margont deflected a bayonet and ran his sword through the infantryman holding it. Saber slashed an artilleryman armed with a musket before pointing his sabre towards the officer commanding the gun.

‘I challenge you.’

‘Delighted, Lieutenant,’ the Russian replied in French, while saluting him with his sabre.

The fools, thought Margont. Saber positioned himself side on and lunged forward, aiming for the head. The Russian parried and counterattacked. Saber leapt nimbly to the side and sliced his opponent’s wrist three-quarters through. The officer turned pale, dropped his weapon and reeled. Saber put the point of his blade to the man’s throat.

‘Sir, you are my prisoner.’

The Russian gave a vague sign of acknowledgement, blinked and fell unconscious. Saber set about bandaging the officer’s wound. There were only two gunners left, encircled by a dozen Frenchmen. The first was sitting astride a soldier lying on the ground and hammering away at the man’s face with his fist. A blow from a musket butt rendered him unconscious. The second had only a fuse in his hand. The infantrymen keeping him at bay turned their heads in the direction of a nearby explosion and immediately the Russian rushed towards his gun. Margont had been suspecting such a ploy and leapt towards him. But he saw to his horror that the Russian was not attempting to fire the cannon and thus send Saber and those around him up in smoke. No, what he intended was to thrust the fuse into the bunghole of a powder keg. Margont brought down his blade on the Russian’s hand, slicing through the tendons and putting a quick end to his action. The gunner stood still as he was surrounded by men with bayonets. He clasped his wound with his left hand. Margont and he looked at each other bemused, the captain astonished by this suicidal gesture and the Russian rather embarrassed, like a child caught with his finger in the honey pot. Margont struck him a brutal blow in the face with the hilt of his sword. The Russian hunched up, screaming.

‘Pull yourself together, Captain, I beg you,’ a sergeant intervened.

Margont did not hear him. He was hurling insults, taut and wild with anger.

‘Poor fool! Madman! Fanatic!’

The prisoner was hastily led away in tears. Margont, motionless, arms dangling by his sides, watched the gunner leave.

The attack had been short-lived. Clusters of soldiers were still fighting but most of the Russians had fallen back. In the distance lieutenants could be seen waving their sabres to rally their men while the colonel who had given the order to fire, recognisable by his portliness, was breaking his horse into a trot to spur his troops on. The Russian musketeers were hastily reloading; the wounded bandaging a hand, an arm, a calf, a thigh or a forehead …

Colonel Delarse was shouting furiously: ‘Charge! Charge! Don’t let them recover! Come with me, Huard Brigade! Forward all!’

But the French were hesitating. He noticed Margont and rushed towards him.

‘Captain Margont, set an example! Charge!’

‘Colonel, the Russians far outnumber—’

‘So what? They’re only Russians! There were far more of them at Austerlitz.’

A roar of triumph interrupted the conversation.

‘The Russians are scarpering!’

The enemy front was retreating in good order. The French infantry, galvanised by the spectacle, rushed forward with a great roar. Then the Russian line changed shape. Its mass gradually thinned out as the numbers fleeing increased. It began to move faster and faster. The potbellied colonel seized hold of a flag and brandished the Russian double-headed eagle. The emblem stood out majestically against an orange disc rimmed with gilded laurel leaves and crested with a crown. The light green background bore a white diagonal cross decorated with laurel leaves and gilded crowns. Suddenly, without any warning, the Russians took to their heels. It was like a long dyke that had just given way under pressure. The French, giddy with success, were running around, leaping over the corpses and the tree roots. They felt capable of pressing on as far as Moscow in one go.

Margont stopped to take stock of the situation. He could hear the sound of fierce shooting on his right, way behind. He looked about anxiously for a senior officer. In vain. He grabbed a corporal by the arm, bringing him to a halt.

‘Where are Colonel Pégot and Colonel Delarse? And General Huard?’

‘I don’t know, Captain.’

Margont let him go and the NCO rushed straight ahead. Margont noticed Saber, who was examining the pelisse of a hussar lying at his feet.

‘Irénée, we’ve gone too far forward. We risk being surrounded.’

Saber noted the irresistible momentum of the French, who were carrying with them Russian musketeers, foot chasseurs and hussars, like a river sweeping twigs and branches along with it.

‘That’s clear, but we still have to pursue them to prevent them regrouping.’

‘But what about us? Shouldn’t we regroup, perhaps?’

‘I quite agree. Let’s catch up with Pégot or Delarse.’

‘But where on earth are they?’

‘Where? In front. Where do you think?’

The two men began running once more. Saber had the quirk of occasionally putting his hand on a tree trunk. He wanted to ‘touch wood’ whenever he was fighting. But he’d rather have been cut to shreds than admit it.

Twenty or thirty yards further on they reached the edge of the wood. Colonel Delarse was trotting back and forth to muster his troops. He was riding a magnificent Russian stallion. Victory could disorganise regiments as much as defeat. Delarse was signalling to the stragglers to hurry up, and to the overeager to slow down. Soldiers of the light infantry were herding the prisoners together. A lieutenant from the 8th Light was brandishing a sabre of the Russian hussars.

‘Victory! Victory!’

The French were bewitched by this magic word. The roar spread faster than a powder trail, and muskets and sabres were brandished aloft. Margont could not resist a smile. He was alive and they had won! By the time they had regrouped they would be ready to follow hot on the heels of the Russians, and capturing them would be as easy as picking flowers.

‘Moscow, here we come!’ shouted Saber.

‘Moscow, here we come!’ replied the whole line in unison.

‘Long live the Emperor! Long live Prince Eugène!’

There was a proverbial saying that a soldier or junior officer could see no further than the end of his company. Nothing could be truer. The Huard Brigade, although it had broken through the Russian lines, had indeed advanced too fast and too far. It now found itself in the middle of the Russian army, cut off from all support. The risk of being encircled was the price it paid for its daring. Margont noticed a stirring in the wood opposite, which was separated from them by a clearing two hundred paces wide. Something was moving; something huge. Margont attempted to convince himself that it was merely an illusion produced by the wind making the bushes and the foliage sway. But it was not that. A sort of Leviathan of the forests was crawling towards them, camouflaged by the vegetation.

Margont was about to speak when someone yelled out: ‘They’re coming back!’