chasseur ran to the left, the crowd immediately veered off in the same direction.
On the other side of the Semenovskaya Ravine, a dark blue mass was moving forward, perfectly in line. Its pointed bayonets were glinting in the sun, a brilliant and deadly streak of light. They were General Gerard’s troops coming to the rescue of the routed Morand Division. The crowd could have continued to flee but it stopped and made an about-turn. Saber, who had just shouted, ‘Stop fleeing like cowards!’ had the delightful but false impression that he was the one who had effected this turnaround of events. Some of the soldiers who had kept on running broke their bones in the ravine or vanished behind clumps of bushes. Others did not rally until they reached the reinforcements. The wave of Russians smashed head-on into those daring to stand up to it but it was hit hard in return by the dark blue floodtide of Gerard’s troops. The cannonballs made holes in the melee, which were immediately filled in. The shells sent smoke, earth and human remains flying into the air.
A carabineer next to Margont was reloading his weapon at top speed.
‘You know what we are when all’s said and done, comrade? Nothing but bloodstains.’
On the Russian left, Bagration declared that he would retake the Fleches or die. He launched a large-scale counterattack but the French smashed this action. Then a shell splinter broke Bagration’s shinbone. The general tried desperately to conceal his wound but he eventually had to be evacuated. He had received a mortal blow. The news spread through the Russian army like wildfire. Bagration enjoyed such popularity that by about one in the afternoon the morale of the Russian left wing had fallen considerably. Also on the Russian far left, Kutuzov was beaten, this time by Poniatowski’s Poles. Once more, Ney and Murat estimated that the Russian army could be destroyed if Napoleon sent in the Guard. Belliard, Ney’s chief of staff, galloped off to find the Emperor.
Napoleon decided to send just the Young Guard into combat. But then he immediately ordered a halt to this manoeuvre. The reason was that on the Russian far right Uvarov’s light cavalry and Platov’s Cossacks had launched a counterattack. They were slaughtering the baggage escort of the Grande Armee, forcing one part of Eugene’s troops and d’Ornano’s cavalry to intervene against them. Napoleon could not afford to part with some of his Guard without first being sure of the stability of his left flank and knowing that they could not be skirted. Kutuzov used this unexpected respite to reinforce his centre by sending in Ostermann’s corps, which was supporting his right and which was under relatively little threat, as well as the Russian Guard. So the Russian centre now had so many troops that it was futile to hope to sweep it aside. Napoleon responded by having a large battery of three hundred guns set up to crush the Russian army with its firepower.
At two in the afternoon the Russians were still in control of the Great Redoubt. The soldiers of the 13th Light were awaiting orders. The roar of artillery fire was frightening and soldiers had to shout in their neighbours’ ears for any hope of being heard.
Margont was observing the battlefield through his field glasses. He could see troopers stirring up clouds of dust, coils of white and black smoke, dark patches moving across the hills and running into other dark patches coming up towards them before disappearing into the smoke.
‘Are we winning or losing?’ yelled Lefine.
‘There’s a lot of moving around. That’s all I can tell you.’
Lefine took the field glasses and surveyed the scene. His face dropped when he saw the hordes of Russians that had appeared in the middle of the enemy position.
‘Good God! Hell has got a bout of Russian indigestion and it’s puking up all the ones we’ve already killed!’
He’d made a joke of it to save face but it was he who, at the prospect of more butchery to come, wanted to vomit.
‘I can’t believe there are so many Russians in the world!’ he exclaimed. ‘We’ve already wiped them all out! It’s just their dead bodies rising up again. They pick up the pieces, gather around the rivers and have a big washday to make themselves more presentable. They bury the ones who are really too messed up: the ones chopped in half or squashed or with a head missing or in too many bits … Then they get back in line and there they are, starting all over again. With the Russians you’ve got to kill them and then kill their corpses, otherwise they come back to life.’
‘I’m going to end up believing your theory of the Russian army’s big washday. They’re bound to send us in again to storm the Great Redoubt,’ prophesied Margont.
‘Here we are! More bad news! And this time it’s enough to make you jump off the Pont du Gard.’
Saber was pacing up and down, his hands behind his back. Why didn’t the Emperor send in his Guard to break through the Russian centre? he asked himself. He had noted the attack by the Russian cavalry on Kutuzov’s far right but he was convinced that the French would hold out on that side and that this manoeuvre was just incidental.
Delarse galloped past, followed by two aides-de-camp, a captain and his former second-in-command’s black horse.
‘That one really gets on my nerves,’ muttered Lefine. He turned towards Margont. ‘He’s earned himself a new nickname since his show of courage at the Great Redoubt: “Death-dealer”. They really meant “Death-dodger” because he defies it so much but “Death-dealer” sounds better.’
‘And what was his old nickname?’ yelled Margont at the top of his voice.
‘“Breathless.”’
‘What’s mine, then?’
Lefine burst out laughing.
‘“Bookworm”, “the bookseller”, and “Captain Freedom”.’
‘It’s better than “Lefine the wheeler-dealer”, “Lefine the nosy parker” and “hoodwinker”.’
Lefine was outraged. ‘That’s an insult, sir. Who said that? It was that bastard Irenee, wasn’t it?’
Piquebois was weaving in and out of the bodies lying on the ground. He grabbed Saber by the sleeve, rousing him from his daydreams just as the Imperial Guard was smashing the Russian centre to pieces and encircling the enemy wings … in his imagination. Margont and Lefine joined them beside Galouche, who was sitting down leaning against the trunk of a half-shattered birch tree. His hands were joined both for prayer and to try to stanch the flow of blood from his stomach. Saber sped off to look for a surgeon. Galouche motioned to Margont to come close to his ear.
‘God’s heard too many prayers at once today. He can’t look after everyone …’ He added with a smile: ‘That’s a very down-to-earth way of putting things. I lived life as a mystic and now I’m dying as an atheist. It’s usually the opposite.’
‘You’re going to pull through!’ Margont declared.
It was a platitude and he was annoyed with himself at not finding anything more convincing to say. Galouche was going to pat him on the arm but stopped. He didn’t want to leave bloodstains on his friend’s sleeve.
‘Ask Lefine to give you lessons in how to tell lies.’
Delarse galloped past again, flourishing his sabre. ‘Everyone to the redoubt! Everyone to the redoubt!’ he shouted.
‘Go there yourself, you git!’ someone yelled.
The insult was lost in the cloud of dust thrown up by the colonel’s horse.
‘We might as well lie down where we are!’ someone else chipped in.
A surgeon came running up. His clothes were dripping with blood, as were his medical bag and his shoes. He was sticky with death. Piquebois, Margont and Lefine shook their friend’s hand for the last time. Saber waved at him from a distance as if expecting to see him again. Then he addressed all those who were willing to listen. The 13th Light had again lost a large number of officers, so they listened to this fired-up lieutenant as they would a general.
‘Soldiers! These are the same Russians as those you crushed at Austerlitz, Eylau and Friedland. Let’s charge at them, my friends, and walk over their bodies! They’re used to it. They still bear the marks of our boots on their stomachs!’
Saber was cheered. A moment later the Morand, Gerard and Broussier Divisions, led by Prince Eugene himself, were moving up to attack the Great Redoubt. It was three in the afternoon.
The drummers were playing to urge them on, adding further to the commotion. The Great Redoubt was still swathed in the smoke from gunfire and only the flashes of firing pierced the thick white cloud. The shots once more caused havoc in the French line, churning it up and cutting through it.
