Valentina (21 page)

The Emperor's stepson, Eugene Beauharnais, turned back with two divisions, and reported later that he had seen wounded men fighting alongside the Marshal's troops. Beaufois was wounded; he had taken a position close to De Chavel to whom he had become fanatically attached, and they were firing from the perimeter of a small wood at the Russian left flank which was trying to make an encircling movement against the central line of Davoust's forces. Three hundred and fifty men were in that wood, more than a hundred of them crippled, and others slightly wounded; they had kept up a steady fire for the past hour, which kept the Russians back, and twice they had been attacked and driven back the enemy.

‘Pray to God they've no cavalry,' De Chavel said to Beaufois.

‘They'd have used them by now if they had,' Beaufois said. He rubbed at his bandaged head and squinted down the barrel of his pistol. His good eye was red-rimmed and swollen with some subsidiary infection, it watered continuously as if he were crying.

He was a very simple man who talked most of the time about his wife or his mistress in a sentimental vein that De Chavel found pitiful. He followed the Colonel everywhere and repeated his remark about their making one whole man together as if it were the best joke he had ever heard. ‘“Fight,” he says,' he would say to anyone not fast enough to escape him, having heard the story a hundred times before, ‘“you've got a right arm and I've got a left eye—together we can still fight!” Capital eh? There's a man for you? He'll be a Marshal of France yet, you see!'

‘I wish they'd come back,' De Chavel said. ‘It's growing dark; soon we'll have to regroup, or most of us'll be lost. Look, there they are! Keep down, Beaufois!'

The Russians advanced in a short rush, which was their fashion, firing as they ran, yelling like demons. De Chavel fired into the first line of them, and from all sides in the wood, muskets cracked out and some of the enemy fell. Shots whined back at the French, smashing into the trees, and ploughing little angry furrows in the hard ground; a cry here or there showed that they had found human targets, but the bullet that struck Beaufois hit him clean in the middle of his dirty bandage and blew his brains through the back of his head. He fell without a sound, and it wasn't until the attack ceased and the Russians sounded the retreat that De Chavel looked round and saw that he was dead. He had wept over the boy who died in hospital at Moscow, and yet they had never spoken. He and Beaufois had been friends. He didn't weep for Beaufois; he envied him. He took his weapons and struggled to stick them into his own belt; using his left arm was still difficult, but nothing must be left for the Russians to steal, and arms were very short. He staggered back through the wood, calling to his comrades, and when a bivouack was made, he fell asleep immediately, too weak and tired to eat the miserable rations. Beaufois had died fighting; it was better by far than living as a travesty of a man, disfigured, crippled, useless. He himself had survived, but this was only temporary. There would be other battles, other chances to kill the enemy until the blessed moment when he shared Beaufois' luck. He dreamed that night that he had both arms, and was able to go back to the wood and bury his friend.

The cold was unbelievable; it burnt. Smolensk, the haven towards which they struggled, blinded by snowstorms, attacked day and night by the enemy, proved to be useless, a mere place of transport before the order came to march on. The reserves had eaten most of the supplies; the men who had come back from Moscow and Borodino could have killed them for it; fighting and murder turned the garrison into a savage rabble it was impossible to discipline or restrict to any system of rationing. Half the buildings were open to the sky and gave no shelter; bombardments and the Russian arsonists had destroyed most of the city. There was nothing to do but move on, and straight ahead of them lay the bulk of the Russian forces under Kutuzov at Krasnoi.

Napoleon made the decision to send Ney back to command the rearguard, and in appointing him to what was a suicidal post, he accurately judged his Marshal's character and capability. Six thousand men were all that could be mustered to protect Napoleon's main force of little over forty thousand from the increasing attacks of Platov's Cossacks, and of these six thousand, hundreds were wounded like De Chavel. The cold was at its peak when they left Smolensk; men staggered onward through blinding snow and freezing blizzards, their ragged uniforms supplemented by sacking and women's clothing, Cossack boots and hats looted from the dead, clothing torn from dead or dying comrades. Men lost fingers and toes from frostbite, men dropped on the march from hunger and despair and froze to death where they lay; there were horrific scenes when one of the wretched pack horses fell, and starving men threw themselves on the animals and cut the meat from it while it was still alive. They drank melted snow and horse blood and it was rumoured that there were cannibals among them, but in spite of all they fought every mile of that incredible march, and Ney was everywhere among them. He shared everything with his dazed and exhausted men, his loud voice shouting orders at them, making jokes at the enemy's expense, always leading and encouraging them. One day he appeared among the straggling wounded, choosing men here and there fit to bear arms, and he came up to De Chavel and embraced him: ‘My dear Colonel! I thought you had gone long ago! How glad I am to see you—are you recovered now?'

De Chavel nodded; he had hardly recognised the Marshal in the gaunt grey-faced man in his filthy cloak and battered hat, he looked so old and his red hair was full of grey. De Chavel had no idea of how he had changed himself; his face was sunken, his eyes were rimmed with red, a scrubby beard covered his chin and crept up his emaciated cheeks, and under the threadbare uniform his body had wasted with privation and weakness. He wore a round fur hat, taken from a dead Russian, and he carried a sabre in his left hand. ‘I'm well enough, Marshal,' he said. ‘Too well to skulk in these ranks any longer. I can still fight; I accounted for one or two at Viazma!'

‘I can believe that,' Ney said, and he put his arm around the scarecrow shoulder. ‘Come to my fire tonight, Colonel. I can't offer you much, but what there is to eat and drink, I'll gladly share with you.' He passed him and moved on, pausing to speak to a man here, or joke with another, and by the time he had gone their morale was higher.

‘We'll manage,' someone said suddenly. ‘We'll keep the swine off the Emperor's back, so long as we have old Ruddyhead!'

It was common for Ney to drag men to their feet when they lost hope and tried to lie down and die; he could be ruthless and scathing when he felt it was needed, he enforced some discipline in spite of the conditions, and though he often wept at night for what his men were suffering, he never showed them a sign of pity. Because of his attitude and the effect of his personality, no one mentioned surrender. It was accepted that they would fight oh and march on behind the Emperor so that he and his main troops could escape back into Poland; the rearguard would either die or be united with their comrades in time to cross the Beresina with them. But there was no thought of surrendering to the Russians and saving themselves.

‘What is the real position, Sir?' De Chavel had eaten a little salt meat and dried beans, and the brandy Ney had doled out to him and two other officers burnt a hole in his empty stomach. They sat crouched over a fire, under the Marshal's tent, and for the first time in weeks he felt a little warmth. The snow had stopped outside; the countryside was covered in thick, blinding white, and a full moon shone down out of a sky full of bright, frozen stars. A few fires flickered, each surrounded by crowds of shivering men; rough shelters of branches and old blankets were set up and groups huddled under them like animals, desperate for a little heat.

The night would not last through without a Cossack attack, and Ney had come to his tent late, after inspecting the sentries at their posts. He looked up at De Chavel over his wine-cup; there was only an inch of brandy left in it. He hadn't eaten anything himself. ‘The real position? All I can tell you is that there's Kutuzov racing for the Beresina, with Tchitchakov coming up from the south to meet him. Our friend Scwartzenburg hasn't budged with his Austrians to stop him. I told the Emperor again and again that Austrian troops would be useless! They're not loyal to
us
—that dog Scwartzenburg has let the Russians through to cut off our retreat! I never trusted him.'

‘If they do meet, before the Emperor gets across,' De Chavel said, ‘what hope has he got? He'll be destroyed.'

‘That's the plan,' Ney said. He picked up a piece of black bread and took a large bite; he went on talking with his mouth full. ‘It's like three sides of a triangle. Tchitchakov on one side, Kutuzov on the other and Platov's Cossacks at the base. They hope to squeeze the Emperor between them before he can cross the Beresina into Poland. But they won't succeed. Napoleon's too clever for that; he'll make the pace in time. Especially now Davoust broke their attack at Krasnoi and let him slip through. And we'll keep Platov occupied. The Emperor will get away; and we'll be right behind him. I'm not worried. There's a little more brandy in that bottle, Duclos—pass it here.'

He insisted on pouring what was left for De Chavel and his two staff officers, refusing any more for himself. ‘If only this damned cold doesn't get worse,' he said suddenly. ‘We're losing hundreds of men every day. How many of your wounded are fit to fight, Colonel? We're going to need every man able to stand up before long.'

‘Not many, Sir,' De Chavel answered. ‘They're dying off too quickly. I might find fifty able to lift a musket, but not more; perhaps not even that. I'll do what I can tomorrow.'

‘You're hardly fit to fight yourself, Sir,' Duclos said. He remembered hearing about the engagement fought by the wounded in the wood at Viazma, and he had found it incredible. But the campaign was made up of such incidents, equal parts of horror and immortal courage typified it. The Colonel turned his sunken eyes on him and they blazed as if he were mad. Perhaps he was; Duclos wouldn't have been surprised. They should all have gone mad and killed themselves like some of the poor devils did after Smolensk was evacuated.

‘I'm fit,' De Chavel said. ‘I may have one arm, but by God I can use it better than some of you beardless idiots can do with two!' He turned away, trembling with cold and rage, the effort of anger was almost too much for him. ‘I'll get a few men together, Sir,' he said to Ney. ‘I'll see who's left alive tomorrow morning. He got up, awkwardly, because he was still off balance without his right arm, and he hated the undignified scramble to lever himself off the ground. No one who knew him would have dared to try to help.

He saluted the Marshal, glared at the discomfited Duclos, and made his way back to the rough shelter which he shared with two other officers, one a Polish Lancer with a gangrenous leg and the other a Grenadier with a back full of iron splinters which kept oozing out. He lay down among them and the Lancer turned over, cursing the pain, and pulled down the edge of his greatcoat from his face.

‘What did he say, Colonel? What is the news for us?'

‘Encouraging,' De Chavel said shortly. ‘He's full of hope. Go to sleep, Rackowicz, before those damned Cossacks come at us again.'

‘I'd like to sleep for ever,' the Pole muttered, ‘only this stinking leg won't let me.' The raid came at four in the morning, and was driven off with casualties on both sides. When it was fully light De Chavel carried out his promise and mustered what wounded men he felt were fit for duty. That day there were eighty of them; three days later the Cossacks surprised the rearguard in a small wood outside Krasnoi, and there were twenty men left to follow De Chavel, and only three thousand in all left under Ney's command. The great Russian force which Davoust had forced back to make a passage for Napoleon was now regrouped in its old position, waiting for the rearguard. It numbered sixty thousand, and it barred the road to Orcha and Napoleon's army, while the Cossacks of Platov pressed on them from behind. Napoleon had evaded this particular trap. Ney and his little force walked into it.

There was a French garrison at Borrisov; they guarded the bridge which crossed the frozen river Beresina and which must be kept intact for the passage of the French Emperor and his troops who were on their way from Orcha. The officer commanding had grown accustomed to strange sights; numbers of refugees had come from Russia already, taking what possessions they could with them, and since they were French civilians, many of them officer's wives who had been left at Smolensk when the main forces advanced on Moscow, he had grown careless about letting them pass. It was another matter to permit a traffic in the opposite direction. He didn't believe the trooper who rode in to say that a horse-drawn sledge with two women and a French officer, with two mounted servants, was asking to be allowed to cross at Borrisov. The man insisted.

‘It's the truth, Sir. The officer says he's a Major de Lamballe and he has a letter from the Foreign Minister Maret at Wilna, guaranteeing the party's safety. I didn't let them pass without your permission, but he's cursing me like the very devil. So's one of the women. Tongue like a dragoon sergeant. Will you come, Sir?'

‘Damn it all.' The officer swore all the way to the bridge. If these people really had a letter from Maret then he would have to let them pass. It might be a forgery, of course, used in the hope of deceiving an ignorant sentry. They might be spies. The sledge was drawn up on the opposite side of the river bank, and he took his time riding across the icy surface, muffled up to his helmet in a thick greatcoat. The sky was the colour of lead, heavy with snow, and it was still freezing hard. The garrison at Borrisov were lucky; they had supplies and good shelter and they had seen little fighting, beyond a few partisan raids. Their turn would come of course, when they repulsed the Russian attacks which were being prepared. The sledge was big, with heavy curving blades that would slice through the icy countryside; the horses were good too; deep-chested and powerful, their breath smoking in the cold air. The servants were well mounted, not like those travelling on miserable failing nags he had seen recently. It was the equipage of someone rich and important. Paul de Lamballe climbed out and waited for him. He stamped his feet to prevent them getting stiff with cold as he waited, and spoke over his shoulder to the woman who leant out after him, her dark face framed in a sable hood.