‘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 Eugene!’
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!’
CHAPTER 14
SILHOUETTED figures appeared. They were everywhere, crowded against one another.
‘They pulled themselves together quickly,’ murmured Saber admiringly.
Margont knew that his friend was mistaken. The Russians were too numerous for them to be the remnants of the regiments that the French had just broken through. So what now? Were they going to fight again? And then? It wouldn’t be the first time. Margont realised that the shakos of these particular Russians were topped with long black plumes. Only certain regiments of grenadiers and carabineers wore this distinctive item of uniform. It meant that he was dealing with crack troops. Eventually, the enemy poured out into the clearing, wave upon wave of Russians in serried ranks. The wood and the forests seemed to be spewing them forth.
Russian reserve troops had rallied their fleeing comrades and were now launching a counterattack. The French opened fire and Margont saw the green coats turn red with blood, and dozens of Russians collapse in a single movement. The moment of contact produced a roar of explosions and shouting. Margont was running, his sword in one hand and his pistol in the other. He was aware only of what was happening immediately around him. A grenadier took aim at him. He hurled himself at the man, deflected the weapon by a sword stroke and thrust the blade into his torso. Another grenadier charged at him to run him through but Margont shot him in the chest with his pistol. Two grenadiers simultaneously impaled Margont’s neighbour to the right, while the one to his left was hit full in the face by a musket butt. Margont recoiled but tripped over a corpse and found himself on the ground. Just as he was getting up, he had to ward off another bayonet attack. His assailant brandished his musket aloft with the intention of shattering his skull. Swiftly, Margont struck him a violent blow to the heel with his sword. The grenadier collapsed, howling. A Russian sergeant, thinking that Margont was wounded, merely hit him on the shoulder with his musket butt without even stopping running. Margont let out a cry of pain. A grenadier ran over his body at the double and two other Russians leapt over what they assumed to be a dying man.
Margont jumped to his feet. There were still a few Frenchmen frantically jabbing away with their bayonets or whirling their muskets so as to knock out two Russians at a time. But most were fleeing, swept away by the tidal wave of Russians. Arms were raised, begging for mercy; men on the ground were being run through with bayonets … Margont broke into a run to get back to his own men. He went past a captain trying to get up at the same time as training a pistol. This officer shot a grenadier and, in reprisal, four Russians fired at him at point- blank range. The chaos was indescribable. A Russian was running in front of Margont but the captain refused to strike an enemy in the back, as much out of pity as out of a sense of honour, but also because he was himself terrified of feeling a searing pain, of falling and turning round to see a grenadier above him, wielding a bloodstained bayonet. Margont pushed the Russian forward with all the strength he could muster and the man fell sprawling to the ground.
Margont turned round. A horde of Russians were at their heels. He saw to his horror that a Croatian infantryman was rushing at him and getting ready to fire. It was indeed he, Margont, who was being aimed at and, what is more, by someone from his own side! He thought, Already … The weapon went off and Margont could no longer hear the yelling and the crackle of gunfire. The Croat overtook him at top speed, brushing past him without taking any more notice of him than if he had been a fallen tree. Margont could feel no pain. The bullet had missed him. He could still see the expression of terror on the soldier’s face. He said to himself that the man would have trampled over his own mother without noticing her if she had had the misfortune to be in his way.
The French were hurriedly withdrawing to the wood they had gone through in triumph a few moments earlier. Three Russian foot chasseurs suddenly emerged from a tangle of bushes. They levelled their muskets, calmly took aim at the routed Frenchmen and killed one apiece. Two more appeared further on and claimed two more victims. Then another, but he missed his target. They had been hiding during the Russian defeat and were now taking advantage of the reversal of the situation. Each time a chasseur showed himself, a terrible lottery began. The fleeing soldiers continued to run, repeating inwardly: ‘Not me, not me.’ The shot was fired, a man collapsed and the others breathed a sigh of relief.
In this odious little game, Margont’s officer’s epaulettes increased tenfold his chance of being picked. Margont trusted himself to his lucky star but, by the look of it, that star was not shining as much as his golden epaulettes because a chasseur hidden behind a tree stump suddenly stood up and took aim at him. Margont risked his all and rushed towards the soldier, yelling as he did so. The Russian was taken aback. He took longer than planned to aim and this delay annoyed him. Just at the moment when he was at last going to fire, Margont leapt to one side, then unexpectedly changed direction once more, while continuing to run towards the Russian, shouting and brandishing his sword. Margont was near, very near; the chasseur had him in his line of sight. Margont made as if to jump to the side once more. The Russian anticipated this change of direction, which never happened, and fired too much to the left. Suddenly, he threw his weapon to the ground and fled.
Margont stopped to get his breath back. He turned round towards his pursuers. The Russians were progressing, pointing their bayonets in front of them. He noticed a Russian captain intrepidly leading his company on. The officer had lost his shako. He was running, brandishing his sabre in his outstretched arm. Margont did not want him to be killed. Here was someone of the same rank, the same age and the same enthusiasm that had driven him in his early battles, before Eylau and Spain. It was like seeing his own image reflected in a Russian mirror. The grenadier must have been hit by a bullet since he crumpled on to his side. Margont felt a tug on his sleeve.
‘Got to get out of here, Captain. Things are going badly,’ someone declared in a tense voice.
‘Leave him. He’s already dead,’ another called out.
The soldier let go of his sleeve. The Russian officer straightened up by leaning on his elbows. Margont started to retreat again. He noticed Colonel Delarse at the edge of the wood and hurried towards him. Delarse was furious.
‘Those wretched Russians. They’re like swings: the further you push them away the faster they come back at you. Get your breath back, Captain Margont. You’re more asthmatic than I am.’
‘Colonel, where’s General Delzons? Where’s the Roussel Brigade? And the Sivray and Almeras Brigades?’
‘The whole handsome lot are on their way, Captain Margont.’
The reply was only for form’s sake because it was quite obvious that the colonel had no idea of what was happening.
Margont turned round and gazed at the French artillery at the other end of the plain. He peered at the groups of troopers and the comings and goings of the messengers. Somewhere over there was Prince Eugene and
