The French were defending their guns. Gathered around their cannon, they gave as good as they got. They were taking advantage of the mêlée 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 this tunic, put it on.’
The Saxon sheathed his sword abruptly, slamming the hilt against the sheath. ‘A Saxon wears a Saxon uniform and obeys the King of Saxony.’
‘To be faithful to one’s ideals or to one’s duty … I would have chosen ideals. Your fringed epaulette has been cut off by a sabre.’
Von Stils looked at his left shoulder. ‘Not content with trying to run me through, they want to strip me of my rank as well!’
Margont and von Stils went to the aid of the wounded. Saber was barking orders for setting up a gun in firing position. The gunners were rushing about, laboriously pushing the wheels, busily bringing round shot. They were obviously very willing but Saber was hurling abuse at them: ‘Layabouts, bunglers …’ However, there was very little likelihood of the Cossacks coming back. So much wasted effort to unhitch the gun, put it into position and load it before firing it at ant-like figures, and then hitching it up again … Margont realised that his friend was frightened. Saber was carefully avoiding looking at the wounded. His aim in putting this gun in a firing position was not to create more victims but to prevent him from seeing the ones already there. Saber completely blotted out this aspect of war. He wanted to fight, but like a child with tin soldiers which don’t bleed when they’re knocked down. So he remained on his horse, sword in hand, ready to order a gun to be fired at Cossacks who never came. When the last of the wounded had been tended and put into a cart and the bogged-down gun pulled out of its rut, an annoyed artillery captain, his arm covered in blood, came to retrieve his cannon. The convoy moved off again.
Saber, Margont and von Stils abandoned it. In the distance could be seen the front of the Pino Division.
The Pino Division was in an appalling state. It was trying to find provisions in an area that had been set on fire by the Russians and pillaged by all the regiments that were ahead of it. The men’s gaunt and haggard faces were worse than any Margont had seen so far.
As the three riders trotted up to the 3rd Italian of the Line, Margont asked: ‘Do you often play with Colonel Fidassio?’
‘Yes, because he loses.’
‘How does he play?’
Von Stils did not seem surprised at this question, as if everyone had a gambling instinct. And perhaps that was true.
‘He takes no risks, constantly undervalues his hand, is suspicious of his own partners. He continually loses money – a lot of money – but when he wins, he’s as happy as a sandboy.’
‘I’d like to play a few rounds with him.’
‘He’s stopped playing now that no one will give him credit.’
‘Who does he still owe money to?’
‘A few of his subordinates who don’t dare to ask for it back!’
‘Does he owe any to that guard dog of his, Captain Nedroni?’
‘As far as I know, Nedroni doesn’t gamble. He merely follows behind Colonel Fidassio to negotiate his debts by staggering the repayments, reducing the amount in exchange for a letter of recommendation …’ Von Stils at once added with a sneer: ‘Yes, that’s exactly it! Captain Nedroni follows behind his colonel!’