A Hundred and Twenty-Nine

The sun scorched the barren land. Burned fields stretched for kilometres in every direction, purged of sustenance by the retreating Russians. On the horizon, a primordial dark forest loomed, as foreboding as it was hostile. And that damned Colonel Lagrange expected them to find enough food here for the whole bloody regiment? Merde.

Jacques’ brooding was interrupted by laughter. He glanced back at his men — a bunch of youths barely weaned from their mothers’ milk, practically bouncing with every step. What, in God’s name, did they have to laugh about?

“Well, lads,” he barked, “having fun there, eh? Why not whip out some drums and bugles to make it a proper ball? If we make enough racket, maybe some Cossacks will come and join us. The more the merrier, ain’t it?”

That brought the mood right down. The quieted soldiers joined Jaques in surveying their surroundings. Good. These kids might have no experience, but at least they had the sense to listen to someone who did. And Jacques had experience enough for all of them, so long as they shut up and learned.

Jacques shifted his pack, checked the balance of the knives on his belt, and switched his musket to a different shoulder. For months now, they had been marching in the rearguard of the Grande Armée’s advance into Russia. After close to half a million men and thousands of horses and wagons had passed on the main road ahead of them, it was a road no longer: knee-deep mud, choking dust, broken-down wagons, and corpses of men and horses littering the edges. More men had died marching so far than from bullets; the roads proved almost as vicious as the Russians stalking the army just beyond them. Almost.

Now, with this country road in as good a condition as one could hope for in this godforsaken place, it was no surprise that the young soldiers were enjoying themselves. Jacques would have let them, too — God knows one must seize any chance of joy during a campaign like this. But as the corporal in charge, he couldn’t forget the kind of mission they were on. Anywhere else in Europe, foraging for supplies in the rear would have been an easy, enviable job. Here in Russia, it was the foulest assignment one could draw.

“Lantier!” Jacques called out. “Climb that hill and see how far it is to the village.”

Lantier, annoyed by the order, knew better than to show it and dutifully set off running up the hill. The rest of the troops, sensing it was time for a rest, dumped their packs and muskets in a not-quite-regulation-pyramid, but otherwise acceptable way. It seemed the drilling hadn’t been completely wasted on them.

Jacques looked over the soldiers as they sat in the dry grass. He did not much like what he saw — a band of young fools who either lacked the imagination to fear or fancied themselves romantic heroes out of a Chateaubriand novel. Even now, in the middle of hostile countryside, with Cossacks prowling all around, they debated as if they were sitting in a Parisian café.

“…so you are a fool, Pierrot!” Martin practically screamed at Laurent. Coincidentally, he was probably the biggest fool of the bunch. “A world without war? Ha! Only a fool would believe such piss! What an imbecile!”

“Shut your mouth, you cowherd! What the hell do you know?” Laurent’s face reddened. “I tell you, once the Revolution spreads around the world, the brotherhood of peoples will stamp out war forever! It’s clear as day, you hear me?”

Jacques winced. Laurent wasn’t a bad sort, but he was the most fervent Republican in the regiment. More often than not, he sounded like a pamphlet rather than a man. Of course, he’d still been making mud pies when the Terror raged, so he knew nothing of it; his republicanism also never stopped him from shouting Vive l’Empereur just as loudly as the rest of them.

The other men, not articulate enough to join the debate, simply grinned and guffawed at the two of them like boys watching a cockfight. Martin’s profane ridicule was definitely more to their liking, and Laurent was giving ground. Desperate, he turned to Jacques.

“Corporal, surely an experienced soldier of the Revolution like you agrees that once we bring freedom, equality and brotherhood to every corner of the world, even by bayonet if we must, all war will end?”

No. Jacques did not think so. The inherent contradiction in that statement did not help either. Worst of all, he hated that Laurent was trying to drag him into this mess. The last thing he needed was a political debate with his troops. He decided to teach Laurent a lesson.

“Oh yes, of course. Not anytime soon, though. It would take a while,” Jacques replied, wearing as serious an expression as he could.

“Really, corporal? How long’s a while? A hundred years?” Martin — despite his usual dimness — caught on quickly, and fanned the flames with an equally grave expression.

Jacques scratched his chin and looked up at the sky, pondering idly whether to piss now or later. Finally, he reasoned: “Nay, a hundred years sounds too soon. We won’t manage it by then. A hundred and twenty-nine should do the trick, I’d say.”

The men roared with laughter, while Laurent grumbled. Jacques turned to see Lantier coming down the hill. At once, he dropped the banter and strode forward to take his report.

“The village is just over the hill, corporal. A big one, just like the report said. No sign of movement.” Lantier was brief and to the point, but his brow was furrowed.

“Anything bothering you, soldier?”

“If I may, corporal. The village is right beside the woods. Couldn’t see a damn thing into them. Could be empty, could have a whole bloody horde of Cossacks in it. No way to know.”

Jacques nodded. Good thinking, that. “Great job, soldier. Now get some rest before we move out.” Lantier saluted and rejoined the others. Right by the woods, huh? That was rotten. He decided he’d better have a look for himself.

On top of the hill, he had a clear view of the village lying in a shallow ravine at the edge of the forest, its farthest houses almost brushing the trees. Jacques recalled from his briefing that Saxon dragoons had spotted the place while pursuing a band of Cossacks. To them, it had looked untouched by war and likely to hold supplies.

He had to agree. The village was clearly prosperous, with a tall church and a wide market square at its centre. To the east, a broad river flowed past, churning several watermills. Sure, here and there blackened barns stuck out like rotten teeth, torched by the Russians to deny the Grande Armée its supplies. But months of campaigning had taught Jacques that Russian peasants always kept food hidden somewhere. The trick was knowing how to ask.

As he came down the hill, Jacques decided that they would have to risk it. The land had been stripped bare by the troops ahead, and any chance of provisions had to be taken. He would sooner brave the Cossacks than endure another bowl of gruel made of grass and wood shavings.

The soldiers formed up and marched out. No one had much desire to laugh now; the danger they were in had dawned on everyone. Rounding the hill, they could all see the village, and the closer they got, the less Jacques liked its stillness. He would have much preferred barking dogs, screaming women, and peasants running about in a panic, caught unawares by their arrival. Such stillness in the height of the day did not bode well.

As they slowly wade through the village, the wooden houses seemed dead and abandoned. At the market square, they halted, uncertain what to do. Unnerved, Laurent asked in a thin voice, “Is it always like this, Corporal?”

“Huh?” Jaques muttered, deep in thought.

“Do the peasants always abandon the villages? Run and hide, and burn what they can’t carry off? In other countries, I mean.”

No, they most certainly did not. In Italy, the peasants greeted and fed you. In Germany, they were indifferent, accepting you as they would any army passing through. Even in Spain, with its ruthless guerrillas, the people at least feigned cooperation before sticking a knife in your back. Only in Russia did the peasants go to such lengths.

“I heard from some Polish lancers that the Tsar’s priests call the Emperor the Antichrist,” Martin blurted out, “and say our invasion is the end of days.”

If he had meant it as a reassuring explanation, the fool achieved the opposite. In the silence of the dead village, with the foreign church towering over them, the men grew uneasy. No matter how fiercely the Revolution had tried to stamp out religion, the French were a superstitious lot, and this talk of the Antichrist put everyone on edge. I have to bloody do something, Jacques thought, before they bolt…

The church doors crashed open. Everyone swung round towards the noise, muskets presented and ready to fire. “HOLD YOUR FIRE!” Jacques bellowed, more afraid of them shooting each other than any enemy.

From inside the church, a priest stumbled out. Walking unsteadily, he made his way towards them. One priest? The hell did he want? And what was wrong with him? The men around Jaques were quiet, and in the corner of his eye he could see Laurent’s trembling hand white from the effort of gripping his musket. The priest paid no mind at all to the wall of French troops aiming at him. “STOP!” Jacques called out. The damned bastard did not react. Ah, merde. What the hell is this?

When the priest almost reached them, he tripped and sprawled in the dust. A bottle rolled from his hand, and a strong, unmistakable whiff washed over the troops…

“Hold on here!” Martin shouted. “This bastard’s dead drunk!”

And the spell broke. Laughter tore through the ranks, and Jacques laughed with them. A squad of the finest army in the world, nearly pissing themselves over a drunk priest!

Enough of this. Jacques strode decisively to the nearest house and hammered on the door. It turned out to not be empty after all. The soldiers got to work, and the village burst into life soon enough.

After they gathered all the terrified peasants in the square, the village elder stepped forward, cap in hand, and began grovelling in his strange tongue. Yes, yes, Jacques thought, nothing left, children starving, the army took, the partisans took, we have only prayers. He did not need to know Russian to understand; he had heard it enough times already. Jacques grabbed the man by his rough tunic and slapped some sense into him — without malice or intent to hurt, just to speed things along. When he let go, the elder stammered on with the same pitiful charade.

Jacques sighed and had the men put the elder against a wall while he adjusted the knives on his belt strap. The villagers broke out into a loud wail, believing he was about to be shot. Jacques looked into the terrified eyes of the old man standing before him. A long time ago, his father had shown him how to butcher a pig. He did not recall much about the correct technique, but he remembered the beady, terrified eyes of the hog. As he looked into the elder’s eyes now, the similarity was all he could think about.

He made four quick movements of the wrist. Four blades whizzed out of his hand and pierced the elder’s tunic. The stupefied peasants stared at their elder — more stupefied than any of them — pinned to the wall but otherwise unharmed.

Throwing knives like that was a neat trick Jacques had learned from the Moors in Spain. He had found that one could shoot every peasant in a village, and they still wouldn’t give up their provisions; scare and shock them with something they had never seen before, though, and they became as malleable as clay.

In no time at all, the destitute peasants had produced a cart, a donkey to pull it, and enough food to fill the cart — with the soldiers stuffing their sacks on top of that. As a final coup de grâce, the peasants even brought out a cow for the French to take with them.

Unnerved by all the commotion, however, the cow refused to go anywhere, and no amount of pulling, pushing or cursing could budge it. Jacques scratched his head in exasperation. “Enough!” Martin exclaimed. He confidently approached the animal, gently hugged its head, and began whispering softly into its ear.

At first, the soldiers watched on impassively. Then one let out a chortle. Then another snickered. Soon none of them could contain themselves. Laurent, seeing an opportunity for comeuppance, shouted over them: “I told you he’s a cowherd! Look, he thinks it’s his sweetheart!”

The young soldiers roared with laughter, completely oblivious to the world around them. They failed to notice the peasants suddenly running for their houses. Nor did they notice Lantier turn with a warning cry and die. Neither did they notice Laurent’s laughter turn into a wet gurgle as an arrow tore through his throat. Only when the second arrow smashed into the back of another soldier and sent him tumbling to the ground did they hear the hooting of the Cossacks and see them charging. By then, it was already too late.

Faced with charging horsemen and their lances, Jacques fell to the ground and prayed he would not be trampled under the hooves. And just in time — the lance destined to pierce his heart instead took Martin’s head clean off. Jacques glanced at the pyramid of muskets some ways off — his among them — and realized there was no hope of reaching them. All around him, his men were screaming and dying, and Jacques made the only decision an experienced soldier who had survived countless campaigns could — he ran for the woods.

The hooves drummed behind him, the arrows hissed, missing him by a hair, but all Jacques thought of was the safety of the woods. Just as the shadow of the Cossack behind him had caught up with his, he crashed into the forest. The horse skidded short, whinnying. Jacques plunged deeper, branches whipping his face.

As the adrenaline began to wear off, he felt a throbbing pain in his leg and was shocked to see an arrow buried in his right thigh. When had the damn thing caught him? Each step burned worse than the last until he fell into a hollow beside a still, black pond.

Jacques tried to climb out, but slid down the wet, muddy bank. He could hear the Cossacks barking at each other in their foul tongue, hot on his tail. It was over. Jacques crawled to the pond, chest heaving from the pain. All the moments he came close to death flashed through his head. He remembered his first campaign and the bridge at Arcole. He remembered the blood-red sun of Austerlitz, and the bitter cold and slaughter of Eylau. All these terrifying, glorious moments. And now he had to die in a ditch in Russia, ambushed on a foraging mission. What a stupid, rotten way to die!

Jacques plunged his face into the pond and drank until his lungs burned. The water was ice-cold, and better than anything he had ever tasted. The Cossacks were getting closer. Jacques considered slitting his throat with his last knife. The idea made him nauseous. No. Such barbarity he could not do. He was French, after all.

The Cossacks were right above him now. “Nu, kuda on delsya?” “Seichas, pogodi!” He recalled the fates of those the Cossacks caught alive. They stripped them naked, tied them to a horse, and dragged them until they were dead. Sometimes they sold the prisoners to peasants whose villages had been pillaged by the French, and they exacted their grim, brutal vengeance.

“Vot on!” They found him. Jacques considered his options, exhaled deeply, and plunged headfirst into the pond.

— — —

After what felt like a century, Jacques emerged back into the world. He breathed greedily, happy to be alive, angry at himself for failing. About to try again, he noticed the Cossacks’ voices were gone. Instead, thunderous booms rolled all around him. Artillery fire — and this heavy? There must have been reinforcements! Reinvigorated, Jacques desperately swam to shore. With strength renewed by hope, he climbed out of the hollow, once again feeling no pain in his leg. The Cossacks were gone!

Jacques fell to his knees and prayed to God. It was not something he often did, but there was no other explanation he could give for his miraculous survival. As he struggled to get up, another man stumbled out from behind the tree.

Intuitively, Jacques thought the stranger was fleeing for his life, just as he had been moments ago. But what a strange man he was! He wore a dark-gray uniform and a black helmet without any decorations, unlike any Jacques had seen. His gleaming black musket — or was it a musket? — was shorter than any Jaques knew. The man, surprised and terrified to see Jaques, raised the strange weapon and pointed it at him.

“Wer zur Hölle bist du? Bist du ein Partisan?”

A Prussian? Out here? Or a Saxon? Jacques was dumbfounded. He did not know what to say.

“Antworte mir, du sowjetisches Schwein! Scheiße!“ the man screamed hysterically. He’s psyching himself up to kill me, Jacques realized. There was nothing else to be done. His hand flashed toward the knife.

A single shot rang out in the forest. Then two bodies thumped lifeless to the ground. And then there were no sounds at all, apart from the distant fire of a thousand guns ceaselessly waging war — as they had throughout all of time.