The two men met up with sixty or so gunners officered by the occasional Polish lancer. For the past few days there had been torrential downpours, turning the road into a vast quagmire. A gun had become bogged down in a rut and eight gunners were trying to free it. The soldiers were struggling with all their might, some leaning forward and shoving with the full weight of their bodies, others pulling on the wheels strenuously enough to tear ligaments. The team of horses was also doing all it could. But the cannon would not budge. Knees bent, the soldiers sweated, swore, and held their breath … to no effect. Margont said to himself that the whole army was like this cannon, bogged down and struggling against all the odds to continue its advance. Von Stils once again wore an expression that was both conceited and melancholy. He was gazing at the artillery pieces.
‘The famous Gribeauval cannon. Their muzzles have blown apart more than one enemy army.’
Margont went up to a captain who was nervously dusting off his jacket.
‘Where’s your escort?’
‘The Poles, you mean? Oh, heavens! A good third of them have deserted, another third are roaming around in search of food and the rest have gone to hunt the Cossacks over there,’ replied the gunner, pointing vaguely towards a wood in the distance.
‘So what are these Polish lancers doing with IV Corps?’
‘What of it? You’re with a Saxon Life Guard yourself! Their major was wounded in Smolensk. His men stayed with him and, now that he’s recovered, they are trying to rejoin their regiment. What a bloody shambles this campaign is, don’t you think?’
‘You’re exposing yourself to—’
Margont did not finish his sentence. A roar rose up from the plain. ‘Huzza!’ Three hundred Cossacks had suddenly emerged from a wood and were bearing down on them. They were dressed in black or navy-blue uniforms. The few Poles present rushed at them, considering the Cossacks their eternal enemies. As they too were wearing navy-blue uniforms, it was difficult to distinguish them from their opponents. Bodies fell to the ground and were trampled, the wounded screamed, pistol shots punctuated the air and strange entangled shapes moved about … The Poles were quickly overwhelmed and the Cossacks sprang up from all sides in the midst of the gunners. The gunners shot the Cossacks at point-blank range and were spiked through in return. A lieutenant close to Margont was nailed to a munitions wagon by a spear neatly thrust through his heart; the teams of horses were bolting, the Cossacks yelling at the tops of their voices: ‘Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!’
Margont charged. A young trooper, hoping to cover himself in glory by capturing a French officer, rode straight at him. With disconcerting ease he turned his lance round. He was no longer brandishing the point but the end of the shaft. Margont attempted to ward off the attack with his sword, felt a violent blow to his breastbone and fell. He landed on his back and the pain took his breath away. Hoofs galloped past close to his eyes, throwing earth on to his face. The Cossack nimbly dismounted. He must have been sixteen. He could have been a little boy, really happy at the idea of giving his father a present but slightly worried because he was after all in the middle of a battle … His prisoner looked in a poor state and he didn’t know how to set about taking him away. Margont tried to move but his back gave him terrible pain. He felt like a wretched insect crushed by a shoe, surviving only to endure agony. The Russian placed his pike on his throat.
‘I won’t move,’ Margont said in Russian.
The adolescent looked at him wide-eyed. It was inconceivable to him that this man could speak his language because the French were agents of the devil. He carefully examined his captive’s uniform. Yes, he definitely was a Frenchman.
‘You are my prisoner!’ he proudly exclaimed.
‘I don’t doubt that for a second,’ replied Margont.
The Russian removed his belt and set about tying the Frenchman’s wrists. Margont feared the moment when the adolescent said to himself that it would be much easier to kill him than to take him prisoner. All around them the Cossacks looked as if they were celebrating rather than fighting. They were whirling and galloping about in every direction, like leaves blowing in the wind, triumphantly yelling ‘Huzza!’ Their frenzy was indescribable: they ran their opponents through until their lances broke, fired their pistols, slashed around with all their might and rode their horses at the gunners to trample them. The Poles showed equal ferocity in the combat. They were fighting as if each Cossack killed freed one square yard of Poland crushed beneath their horses’ hoofs.
The French were defending their guns. Gathered around their cannon, they gave as good as they got. They were taking advantage of the melee to put their muskets against the bellies of Russians engaged in sword duels before firing. They cut into the enemy with their bayonets, swords and even knives. The Cossacks were drooling over the artillery. An elderly sergeant was jealously guarding his Gribeauval and his gunners, like a cockerel guarding his hens.
After smashing two skulls with his musket butt he shouted: ‘God Almighty! What would the Emperor say if they nabbed our fire-belchers? What a disgrace that would be!’
These words galvanised the defenders. Margont was struggling to his feet when the first sign of an adverse wind made the Cossack storm die down. A substantial party of Polish lancers had appeared from a distant wood and was galloping towards them.
‘The escort’s coming back!’ yelled someone.
Margont rejoiced at the thought that these troopers had finally realised they had fallen into a trap, pursuing a decoy intended to lead them away from the convoy. Then he thought that perhaps the Poles had deliberately gone off on this false trail to encourage the Cossacks to attack at last. The adolescent who had captured him was looking at him with an expression of deep sorrow. There were still a few wisps of straw left in his tousled ginger hair from where he had slept. One felt like removing them with a paternal gesture and sending him back out to play. Margont had taken his expression to be one of disappointment but it was more one of guilt. He seemed to be about to apologise. He unsheathed his sabre and approached the captain intending to execute him. Margont rushed him. The Russian brandished his sword but the Frenchman barged into him and his shoulder charge sent him flying to the ground. The shock revived the pain in Margont’s back, giving him the impression that his opponent had, in spite of everything, managed to thrust his sabre into his backbone.
There was a sign of hesitation in the Cossack attack, clearly perceptible by the dying away of the shouts of ‘Huzza!’ The Russians decided to release their prey. A horseman stopped beside the adolescent and shouted something to him as he stretched out his arm. The young man shook his head and again faced up to Margont. If he couldn’t take back a captive, at least he’d have the lovely epaulettes that he’d snatched from an officer’s dead body. Margont easily rid himself of the belt that was shackling his hands. There were almost no Cossacks left. One of them broke away from the group who were fleeing and came galloping back towards the convoy. Aged about fifty, bearded and with wavy ginger hair, he rode his horse between the two adversaries, made it rear up and grabbed the adolescent more by the scruff of the neck than by the collar. The boy shouted out but nimbly threw himself on to the horse’s back. They fled just as the Poles reached the guns and skewered the last remaining Russians as they would chickens or turkeys at Christmas: one after another and without ever feeling sated.
Saber was also back, alerted by the firing. His exhausted mount covered the last few yards at walking pace, its weakened gait contrasting with the efforts of its rider to make it gallop off in pursuit of the enemy.
‘Did you see that, Quentin? They deliberately chose to attack after I’d left.’
Saber really believed he was well known in this part of Russia and that when they talked among themselves the Cossacks would sometimes say: ‘So let’s attack this convoy. It’s poorly guarded.’ ‘No, my friend, because Lieutenant Saber’s with them.’ ‘Oh! If Saber’s there, there’s no point in even thinking about it.’
Margont was having difficulty walking and was trying to recover his sword, his shako, his mount and his pride. He needed a warm, comfortable bed. Yes, that was exactly it – a warm, comfortable bed.
Saber looked him up and down. ‘That’s the second time the Cossacks have unhorsed you, isn’t it? Next time, throw yourself straight to the ground. You’ll save time.’
Saber often tried to outshine his friends with this type of withering remark. For him, glory was not something to be shared. Every man has his limits, so Margont moved towards Saber to grab him by the sleeve and unhorse him, to see which of the two would be the next to end up on the ground. Saber thought it preferable to move away.
Von Stils came back, with a haughty look on his face. His heavy cavalry sabre was bloodstained. He dismounted and wiped it clean with the tunic of a dead Cossack.
‘I killed two of them. I imagined I was charging at two French hussars.’
Margont eyed him coldly. ‘If you hate us so much, why don’t you go over to the Russians? Instead of dirtying
