For Barguelot this sentence had the merit of being a compliment received as much as given. The colonel held out his hand to Margont who, rather taken by surprise, belatedly held out his own.
‘Captain Margont, I’ve invited some officers from my regiment to dine with me tomorrow. Please join us.’
CHAPTER 1 1
THE afternoon was drawing to a close. In order to spare Nocturne, his horse, Margont had wanted to take a short cut through the woods to rejoin his regiment. Once again he had overestimated his sense of direction and had lost his way. After cursing the Russian forests he reassured himself that even the most inept of people was bound to be able to find an army of several thousand men. The smell of soil and rotting leaves filled the air, and for company he had only the soft sound of hoofs on a carpet of fir needles and moss, and the sharp snap of branches.
After a short time Margont reached a clearing. It was quite wide, forming a triangle with sides measuring more than a hundred yards. He had emerged close to three sentries, who immediately levelled their muskets at him. Realising their mistake, the soldiers lowered their weapons before saluting him with an obvious lack of military discipline. The open space dipped in the middle and along the bottom of this hollow ran a river that in the summer drought was now no more than a stream. Five grenadiers were filling their gourds and leather water bottles. A little further upstream five chasseurs were watering their horses. One sergeant did not take kindly to drinking water flavoured with horse spittle and straightened up to hurl abuse at the chasseurs. Noticing that one of the horsemen was a lieutenant, he had to content himself with ordering his men to stop what they were doing until the ‘animals had finished splashing around’. Nocturne pulled up sharp when it caught sight of the stream and began to trot down the slope. Margont gave it a friendly pat on the neck.
‘Yes, it’s all right, we’re going to have a drink. And, luckily, it’s the 19th Chasseurs. We’re back with our corps.’
The silence was shattered by confused shouting. Margont saw one of the three sentries go charging down the slope without his weapon. A galloping horseman caught up with him and sliced his head off with a swipe of his sword. Two shots rang out. The grenadiers let go of their gourds and swiftly levelled their muskets. Margont unsheathed his sword and turned round. Fifteen or so Cossacks had sprung out of the forest. Their blue trousers, jackets and caps showed they were regular troops. They yelled as they charged, levelling their lances. The shock tactic was a total success. More shouting compounded the French soldiers’ confusion: other Cossacks had appeared to catch them in a pincer movement.
The officer leading the assault bore down on Margont. The captain attacked him without mercy, convinced he was about to die. He did not attempt to run his sword through him in case it remained stuck in his opponent’s body, but struck him a fearsome blow to the shoulder. The blade sliced right through to the bone. A young Cossack, armed with a lance, immediately set upon Margont. The lance – which in Western Europe was considered a weapon of the Middle Ages – was longer than the sabre and gave the charging horseman the advantage because it allowed him to strike first. Conversely, in hand-to-hand fighting it reduced the chances of success because it was unwieldy and took away the initiative. Margont faced him and suddenly landed on his back before he could even attempt to parry the blow. Fortunately, the point had only pierced his coat and the thin layer of flesh covering his ribs. Before he had fully recovered his wits, he instinctively rolled over to narrowly avoid being trampled by another Cossack. This one let out a ‘Huzza!’ full of burning anger, and tried to pin him to the ground. His lance grazed Margont’s arm. The Frenchman picked up his sword and rushed towards his mount to grab his horse pistols, vowing to blow the brains out of the next Cossack who tried to spear him. One of the horsemen guessed his intention and galloped towards Nocturne, yelling as he did so. Seeing how reluctant the horse was to give up on its master, he flung the lance in its direction. Nocturne fled at a gallop.
Margont faced up to the Russian who was charging towards him. This time it would be sword against sabre and, as his adversary was at least ten years younger than he, Margont could reasonably bet on his own superior technique. The Cossack followed the same reasoning and turned tail.
The Cossacks now scattered in all directions, like a flock of pigeons flying off when a child rushes into their midst. The forest soaked them up immediately, like blotting paper. Three of them were strewn across the clearing. Four infantrymen and one chasseur had also perished. In the stream a grenadier on all fours was spitting blood. The sergeant was supporting another who had the point of a lance still embedded in his thigh. The lieutenant from the chasseurs was pressing a hand to his forehead to stanch the blood that was running into his eyes.
Margont was surprised by the tactics of the Cossacks, who had no sooner come than gone. They had the advantage in numbers, the speed of their horses and their wretched lances. Why did they not continue? Why did they break off a fight that would probably have ended with the death of all the Frenchmen? It was obvious that their aim was to harry. The element of surprise had reduced their losses: if they had persisted they would have paid heavily. They preferred sudden raids to drawn-out action. Margont attempted to lift his spirits with the thought that in a Cossack raid, time was on the side of those under attack.
The lieutenant came galloping up to him. The poor fellow held his sleeve to his forehead and his face was spattered with blood, making him look like an ecorche.
‘Captain, would you care to join us in pursuing these bastards?’
‘There were fifteen or so on my side. How many were there altogether?’
‘Two groups of about fifteen sons of bitches.’
‘Do you expect just the five of us to chase after them?’
‘They’ve spread out. I’m hoping to surprise a small isolated group who—’
Margont shook his head. ‘If you set off on their trail and they decide to face up to us, they will regroup immediately. If they prefer to flee, they will scatter in all directions.’
The lieutenant took his sleeve away from his wound but had to put it back again immediately.
‘With your permission, Captain, I shall leave you.’
Margont gave an impatient wave. ‘Off you go. Go and charge at them if you haven’t had your face smashed in enough.’
The chasseur went back to his men and led them off towards the woods, sabres drawn.
Margont was still cursing as he rejoined his regiment. His life might have come to an abrupt end in some godforsaken clearing in the middle of nowhere in the vast empty spaces of Russia.
Despite his fright, his mind was racing. Four suspects! Why had night fallen already? Why should he have to waste time sleeping when there was so much to be done? The 84th had set up camp on a muddy plain. Some soldiers were already asleep, wrapped in poor-quality blankets and huddled against one another out in the open. Here and there men were pitching tents or collecting deadwood to make fires for warmth and to cook up a miserably meagre broth.
Margont tied Nocturne to a stake. The animal’s ribs were sticking out from under its skin and its scrawny look was in sharp contrast to its stomach, which was bloated with gas. He stroked its neck a long while. Then he took it by the bridle and led it to a wood where he set it free. Margont wanted to give it a last chance of survival, or at least allow it to die peacefully. Nocturne gazed at him for a long time without moving before disappearing into the darkness.
By the time Margont caught up with Lefine, Saber and Piquebois, his comrades were roasting a chicken and it took all their combined authority and rank to keep the famished spectres clustering around them at bay.
‘A good catch! Who do we have to thank for this?’ Margont exclaimed gleefully.
Lefine bowed his head. Margont tore a leg off the bird.
‘Just now a soldier asked me how many days we were from Moscow. “Four? Five? More? Are you sure?” he said to me. If the infantrymen had maps there’d be three times as many deserters and you’d need to fire a shot to protect this meal. I can’t stay because I’ve still got things to do.’
He motioned to Lefine to step aside for a quiet word.
