probably ensure victory but not without sustaining very heavy losses. The situation was not yet clear and he feared a second battle the next day or the day after. Napoleon therefore wanted to win without deploying his Guard … if possible.
Seeing that all would be lost if he did not react, Kutuzov ordered a general counterattack, throwing considerable reserves into the fray. In the centre, the infantrymen of Lithuania, Ismailov and the Prince of Wurttemberg as well as the cuirassiers of Astrakhan and those of the Empress attacked the village of Semenovskaya while Barclay de Tolly and Bagration set about recapturing the entrenchments. On the Russian right, Hetman Platov’s Cossacks and Uvarov’s troopers went into action and, on the left, Olsuviev’s soldiers came to support Tuchkov’s in order to halt Poniatowski.
From the Great Redoubt a host of Russians could be seen, pressed shoulder to shoulder. Their courage bolstered by vodka, they formed a compact wall and were shouting ‘Huzza! Huzza!’ to thank the French for being kind enough to take them on. In the entrenchment, mainly occupied by the 30th of the Line because the other regiments were placed on either side of the position, the French were astounded. What was going on? Hadn’t they won? Wasn’t it all over? The French were firing from all sides but the Russians did not even slacken their pace. The seething green and white mass glinting with bayonets immediately swarmed over those who fell, giving the impression that the volley of fire had had no effect.
‘For God’s sake, are we firing at ghosts or what?’ someone swore.
Margont saw Saber and a few men knocking down the double stockade that closed off the gorge of the redoubt. They were pushing with both hands against the tree trunks spared by the cannonballs or leaning against the wood. It was difficult to work out quite why they were doing this. Didn’t they realise that the Russians were going to come back this way?
‘Stop these idiots or I’ll have them shot on the spot against their posts!’ yelled a colonel, pointing at Saber and his men with the tip of his sabre.
Margont pushed his way through the throng of fusiliers to get to his friend.
‘You’re mad. What are you doing?’
Saber had seized hold of a tree trunk, which he was gradually bending. He was so stubborn that even if three men had got hold of him to remove him forcibly, he would have taken his bit of the stockade with him.
‘The redoubt’s lost! We’re going to be swept up like dead leaves and the green coats will cling to this battery like limpets. The only way of getting back here will be a combined pincer attack, with the infantry head on and the cavalry to the rear. So we need to clear a path for our troopers!’
‘A combined attack?’ yelled Margont uncomprehendingly.
The previous night Saber had not taken account of the human factor in drawing his battle plans on the ground. That was one thing. But even now, when a human wave was about to engulf them, he was continuing to reason in a cold, mathematical way, a disembodied way, even. Saber collapsed, along with his post.
A trooper suddenly appeared in front of them. His horse was pawing the ground and tossing its head to shake the foam from its lips. The man and his mount were silhouetted against the light and their dark, proud, magnificent outlines were terrifying. He looked like one of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. When the soldiers’ eyes had adjusted to the light, they recognised Colonel Delarse. He had his back to the enemy. The Russians, who were getting closer and closer, were all attempting to cut down this officer, who some of them thought was Napoleon himself. Delarse pointed at the heart of the redoubt.
‘Gentlemen, this is the gate to Moscow. Do not let them shut it again!’
A cheer went up at these words and shouts of ‘Long live the Emperor!’ rang out. Delarse set off again at a gallop, followed by a riderless black horse. Darval, his adjutant, had just rolled down dead at the foot of the earthworks.
The Russian horde swooped down on the entrenchment. Dark shadows appeared on all sides in the suffocating smoke caused by the firing. Flashes of light burst out constantly amidst a deafening roar. The Russians were trying to get in through the gorge but the French were blocking their way. Bodies were piling up on both sides. The Russians coming up behind flung themselves with all their might against their comrades to break this bottleneck. The soldiers of the 30th and the 13th Light were massing to counterbalance the Russian push. Those who were in the middle of this fray were caught in the vice. Squashed one against the other, some who had been killed could not even fall to the ground, giving the illusion that the dead had risen again to take part in the fighting.
Margont looked up. The Russians were firing from the top of the earthworks. Their bodies stood out so clearly that they were immediately cut down. Others took their places, only to suffer the same fate. The defenders of the gorge were eventually overwhelmed. Men were trampled to death whilst the Russians, whooping with joy, flooded in, running their bayonets through anything that moved. A petrified Margont thought of the amphitheatre in Nimes. He had the impression of being in the middle of that ancient building, a wretched gladiator lost amidst a host of other gladiators. But there was no public, no Caesar poised to raise his thumb to bring the slaughter to an end. He saw green musketeers rushing towards him. A French fusilier next to him began howling with laughter. He was standing motionless, his weapon at his side, and laughing, just laughing.
Someone bent double in front of Margont. A piece of blood-soaked metal was sticking out of his back. Margont fired his pistol at the chest of an attacker. An indistinct figure charged at him, shouting at the top of his voice and wielding a bayonet. Margont dashed towards him, avoided the blade and thrust his sword into his stomach. To his right, someone fired a shot in someone’s face. A hand caught him by the ankle. He leapt back without attempting to ascertain whether it was a Russian who had been knocked down or a wounded soldier asking for help. He was struck from behind on the left shoulder by a musket butt and lost his balance. He turned round sharply to discover an infantryman raising his bayonet to nail him to the ground. Margont had let go of his sword. He sprang forward, grabbed the Russian by the waist and both fell to the ground.
Margont got back up. The French were pulling back. He noticed General Bonnamy, who was commanding the 30th of the Line and the 2nd Baden of the Line. Bonnamy was bleeding. A mass of Russians surrounding him were about to jab him to death with their bayonets. The fusilier was still laughing. He hadn’t moved an inch. A Russian thrust his bayonet into his stomach. The Frenchman made no effort to defend himself. He collapsed. He had stopped laughing, recovering his senses only to die.
Margont retrieved his sword. The soldier who had attempted to run him through had picked up his musket. Margont trained his empty pistol at him. The Russian hesitated. Was he going to fight or give up? A stray bullet made the decision for him and went straight through his chest. Everywhere muskets were being thrown to the ground and hands were being raised in the air. The Russians had won. Margont caught up with those who were withdrawing but, since they had been surrounded, they would have to fight their way through the enemy.
Two-thirds of the 30th had perished in the redoubt and the area around it. But the survivors, added to those of the 13th Light and the other regiments, still made up a powerful force. They had begun to withdraw in good order when they suddenly turned into a surging mass. It was as if their minds had undergone a strange chemical reaction, producing a state of volatility. Paradoxically, their fear increased when the danger was receding since they were going back to their lines. A drummer had speeded up to overtake a grenadier and it was this trivial incident that had sparked off the stampede. The grenadier speeded up to overtake the drummer and soon everyone was running. Fear turned to panic and panic is the most contagious of all diseases. Margont looked back. The Russians were pursuing them.
‘Fall in again or they’ll slaughter us!’ he yelled.
Saber, who was close at hand, shouted: ‘You’re a disgrace to our army! Fight for the honour of France!’
One was appealing to their reason, the other to their pride, but all the soldiers had turned deaf. The French ranks broke up in complete disarray and they began running faster and faster, hurtling down the slope of the hill in total confusion. Colonel Delarse positioned his magnificent brown horse across their path to bar the way.
‘About turn! Stand up to the enemy!’ he shouted. ‘I recognise you! You’re Lucien Malouin! Stop or you’re for the firing squad! And you there, Captain Andre Dosse!’
His mount found itself surrounded by men on the run and was swept away by this human tide. Delarse was the only one standing up to the enemy but was going backwards despite himself. He was like a man astride a log being carried along by a raging current. Panic reached the point of madness. Soldiers began changing direction for no reason, accidentally bumping into their comrades. The stampede had turned into a sort of mysterious creature behaving irrationally, ignoring what was important and reacting excessively to the quite insignificant. So, if a foot
