Текст книги "Officer's Prey"

Автор книги: Armand Cabasson

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 21

THE man was slumped in an armchair, in one of the drawing rooms of his quarters in Smolensk. Nothing in this wonderful room could hold his attention, not the height of the ceiling – quite out of proportion – nor the furniture with its embroidered upholstery, nor the chest of drawers inlaid with panels of Chinese or Japanese lacquer … His mind was occupied by images of other things. He was recalling the feelings that had overwhelmed him while he was torturing that woman, especially when he had disfigured her face. The mutilations had rendered that body anonymous and his imagination had seen the reflection of other faces in this mirror of blood: the shy wife of one of his officers; a former lady-friend to whom he had been very close; women he had come across in the street … On the other hand, he had killed the servant on the spur of the moment because he had been frightened. That giant with arms and legs like the branches of an oak tree could have broken his neck with one swipe, like a bear. He regretted the hastiness of it. He would have liked to tie the beast to his straw mattress and cut him up bit by bit. But the exquisite taste of pleasure was mingled with a feeling of anxiety.

A few days earlier he had visited a field hospital. Oh, the wounded! He had looked at them writhing like the worms he used to cut in two as a child. The funniest thing was that people had thought it was compassion. Compassion! Seeing these anguished faces smile at him as if he were a saint had doubled his pleasure.

The following day, as he was exploring the area, he had noticed that a man he had seen the previous day near one of the wounded was riding some way off from his escort. He had assumed he was a marauder, except that he saw him later and then understood. He suspected that someone was investigating the murder of the Polish woman but he had been amazed to realise how far the investigations had progressed without unmasking him. It must be because of Maria’s private journal. What an absurd idea to write everything down in a notebook perfumed with dried rose petals! Maria had told him about it as you tell someone a secret as a mark of confidence. She had immediately added with a sway of the hips that she would never let anyone read it, not even him. As if he could be interested in such childish activities! It was only afterwards, just after killing her, that he had remembered that lieutenant who had come galloping up to them from nowhere and saluted him saying: ‘Colonel, an urgent message for you!’ The bloody fool! He had given clear instructions about who was replacing him that day! He had not told anyone where he was going so this lieutenant must have scoured the countryside to find him. The fathead! He must have seen that his colonel was in civilian dress and in the company of a lady. The lieutenant had paid heavily for his blunder. At Ostrovno he had sent him time and again to the front line carrying missives of little importance. In the end the young officer had been cut to pieces by grapeshot. And the message he was carrying said basically: ‘Beware of the enemy artillery.’

If he had not been overwhelmed by fury as he was stabbing Maria, he would have remembered to force her to tell him where she had hidden her notebook before finishing her off! His emotions and desires sometimes impinged dangerously on his reason.

The result was that now he was being spied on. So he had decided not to kill again until the end of the campaign. Then he would be transferred somewhere and there … In Smolensk, he had not been able to stop himself from striking again, but it was imperative from now on that he should lie low. Those spying on him would eventually tire of doing so. However, despite his resolutions, he was not sure he would be able to restrain himself for such a long time.

IV Corps was given the order to cross the Dnieper. Margont had to resign himself to saying his farewells to the Valiuski family while the colonel of another corps was already taking possession of the place.

As Margont was getting into the saddle he noticed Countess Sperzof’s old servant. He was hurrying as fast as his advancing years allowed. His cheeks were puffing in and out as he struggled for breath.

‘Captain, sir, something’s missing …’ The servant closed his eyes as if he were going to drop down dead at the hoofs of Margont’s horse. After catching his breath he declared: ‘Captain, something’s missing. A ring. The countess had the ring yesterday evening, the count’s ring with the family emblem: the two birds.’

‘Someone’s stolen her signet ring, have they?’

Margont thrust his hand deep into his pocket but the servant stopped him.

‘No money. If you want to thank, arrest man who did it and go back to France. All.’

‘I’ll find this man. The rest is outside my control.’

The old man looked bewildered. ‘Why all that on her, oysters, tea …?’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’

The servant left, taking his fears and his queries with him.

Margont turned to Lefine. ‘I know why he stole the signet ring. He wanted a souvenir like when you keep the menu from a wedding to remind yourself of a very enjoyable occasion.’

Napoleon and his entourage were weighing up the situation. There were now only one hundred and fifty thousand men left in the Grande Armée. Soldiers were shooting the looters until their arms ached from firing, but to no effect. Hunger, fatigue and despair were winning and, every day, more soldiers disappeared. The Emperor had taken advantage of the stop at Smolensk to restore some order to this chaotic army. Should they go on?

Marshal Berthier, the Emperor’s close friend and confidant, wanted to leave it at that. They had already conquered enough land for 1812. The army should take up its winter quarters and continue the war in 1813. Others wanted to bring the campaign to an end. They could not see the point of it. It was a very diplomatic way of not saying what they really thought: that Napoleon was waging this war because he did not like sharing part of the throne of Europe with Alexander. Murat even went as far as to beg the Emperor on bended knee to give up on Moscow as the city would be their downfall. But Napoleon was not accustomed to half-victories. He wanted Moscow. He was convinced that the Russians would fight to save their old capital (this was how it was referred to now because a century ago the administration had been transferred to St Petersburg, the new capital) and that he would therefore at last have the chance to crush their army. Then the Tsar would definitely agree to negotiate, he thought. Furthermore, the Emperor feared the reaction of the countries he now ruled. How would Austria, Prussia and the German states of the Confederation of the Rhine react if he did not win a decisive victory over the Russians when he had four hundred thousand soldiers at his disposal? Silent curses were likely to degenerate into protest and then open revolt. In any case, was he not Napoleon? So Moscow it would be.

On 23 August, IV Corps resumed its march. The palette of feelings amongst the soldiers ranged from the dull grey of gloom to the jet black of despair. There was often the scarlet of anger too. Many had thought the campaign was over and nobody wanted to resume this hellish march.

Lefine had managed to obtain a konia, a hardy Russian breed of horse. These beasts were very small and the French who rode them became figures of fun, their huge bodies perched on what looked like ponies, their legs dangling to the ground.

The previous day Lefine and Margont had returned to Smolensk. They had inspected the houses where their suspects had been staying on the night of the murder. The buildings were enormous and it would have been easy to slip away from them. They had decided to recruit a few more men they could rely on to back up their spies. The surveillance operation would continue even though it had been unmasked.

The 84th had just set off when Margont gave a start. He went pale. Lefine, who was riding alongside him, stared at him in consternation. He’d already seen similar faces, those of comrades hit by bullets. Margont seemed to have taken the full force of a noiseless explosion.

‘Are you all right, Captain?’

‘I think … I think I’ve understood why the killer spread food over the body of the second victim and why he tore out the pages of a book.’

‘Really? So there’s an explanation for that, is there?’

‘It’s another of his coded plays on words. He smears mulberry jam over the face, places an atlas on the body, the remnants of a book – only the remnants because he had torn out the pages – lumps of fat, or rather grease, oysters, nuts, tea leaves. Mulberry, atlas, remnants, grease, oysters, nuts, tea: MARGONT.’

Now it was Lefine’s turn to be hit by the silent bullet.

‘But … how …?’

‘After discovering he was being watched, he in turn must have enlisted the services of a spy. The spy must have followed one of your men. So he traced you and then me.’

Lefine looked around him anxiously. ‘What if he chops our heads off? Who’s to say we won’t end up one morning with mulberries smeared all over our faces?’

Margont was looking more and more composed. His coolness was a mystery to his friend. He could remain calm in a situation like this but, conversely, become panic-stricken by the inactivity that Lefine found pleasantly restful.

‘He must think that killing us would be a mistake. We’d be replaced by Captain Dalero and if he disappeared someone else would take over. It’s better for our suspect to know exactly who he’s dealing with. In fact, there’s even some good news.’

The 84th was passing through a village that the Russian army had set fire to as it fell back. It had left behind about sixty wounded who could not be transported. Almost all had died and Portuguese soldiers in brown uniforms were burying them.

Who can see any good news around here? wondered Lefine.

‘If our man had wanted to murder us,’ Margont went on, ‘he wouldn’t have let us know that he’d identified us.’

The argument did not allay Lefine’s fear.

‘Why, then, did he warn us that he knew who we were?’

‘For the pleasure of showing that he’s cleverer than us and to inform us that if we get too close, he knows who to strike.’

‘Better and better.’

‘We need to be on the look-out. Perhaps we’ll be lucky enough to spot someone spying on us. We’d need only to catch the rascal and make him talk in order to trace our man. But I don’t believe that will happen. He wouldn’t take such a risk. We’re probably no longer being watched.’

‘Really?’ replied Lefine, who’d already spotted three suspects.

‘And that’s not all. If the spy employed by our man has followed you, since you regularly visit our henchmen, it’s possible that the killer has discovered that we have three other suspects and that he now knows their names. Still, at least I’m now convinced that the person we’re after also killed Élisa Lasquenet.’

Smolensk was gradually receding into the distance, in a bluish haze that made it look unreal. The Grande Armée seemed like an immense shipwrecked vessel abandoning the island on which it had just run aground to sail off again into unknown waters.

CHAPTER 22

NOTHING, absolutely nothing was happening, and this nothing was making the French army desperate. The Russians continued to fall back. Whole regions were being invaded with hardly a shot fired, but all they found was ashes.

For many, the lack of action was an ordeal because it made the agonising wait before the fighting even longer. For Margont being inactive was like being dead. Advancing in a column was killing the days; all those regiments were grinding them to dust. He salvaged a few hours by talking to various people, but the march made those without horses short of breath. He made up short stories, plays and even changes to the Constitution. But tiredness drained his mind. These pointless, wasted days ebbed away like blood oozing from the veins of a wounded man. To combat his melancholy, he forced himself to shave every day and spent time dusting down his uniform. His theory was this: since a nice glass sometimes makes a drink taste better, why should the same not be true of uniforms and soldiers? His efforts paid off. A little. His smart appearance and the impeccable creases in his uniform – in the mornings, at the start of the day’s march – helped to contain his distress. In addition, he kept volunteering for things: patrolling to obtain provisions, sending messages … His Russian horse was sufficiently tough to withstand the extra miles and, paradoxically, the effort alleviated his own weariness and tiredness. Fortunately, the day of 2 September was so eventful that it managed to revive him just as he was teetering on the brink of depression.

The morning had begun in the normal, tedious way. Margont was spending – or rather wasting – his time roaming around. He was bringing deserters and marauders back to the ranks, knowing full well that they would slip away again as soon as his back was turned. He also expended a great deal of energy jollying the stragglers along. He tied their knapsacks to his saddle to lighten their load, used diplomacy, threats, encouragement … But hunger and fatigue dogged the soldiers’ steps. Margont gazed at the endless succession of columns on the plain. The ranks were slack, the uniforms filthy and a great many men were missing, a great many. The horizon, consisting of interminable stretches of plains, hills and forests, seemed to lead nowhere. Margont decided to fall back in with his battalion.

Of the many strange phenomena that occurred in armies, one of the most curious was rumour. News that was more or less true sprang up somewhere and developed like an epidemic, spreading joy, hope or fear and unfailingly nonsense. During this campaign, everything moved slowly apart from rumour. It had its own way of galloping from one mind to another, of disturbing the rearguard before, a moment later, exciting the vanguard. It was like a swarm of sparkling fireflies flitting from someone too talkative to someone else too credulous, before frightening the army corps commander himself. Today it was in one person’s head and tomorrow in the heads of the whole army; now in the Russian plains and in three weeks’ time in the Paris theatres. How did it perform its magic? No one knew. Margont lent an ear and reaped a good harvest.

The long-awaited great battle was going to take place because the Russian generals had become so exasperated at having to fall back that they had rebelled and hanged the Tsar in their anger. There was nothing left of the Russian army. Almost all its men had been killed at Austerlitz and its survivors had been exterminated at Eylau, Friedland and Smolensk. So they were chasing a ghost. There would at last be a confrontation in less than three days. This was bound to be the case because the Russians were ruined and desperate and could no longer retreat. But that rumour had been heard every day since the crossing of the Niemen two months earlier …

Another fashionable opinion was that Alexander was falling back so far that this campaign would end up in India. Margont smiled to himself as he imagined this bizarre scene. Would Napoleon meet the same fate as Alexander the Great, seeing his soldiers mutiny on the banks of the Ganges and refuse to continue their astonishing series of victories? Or, on the contrary, would he watch them scrambling aboard every imaginable vessel in their haste to add the other side of the river to the Empire? He would then be able to exclaim: ‘Now I am mightier than the great Alexander!’

Apart from rumour, there were constant conversations – but only in the mornings before tiredness took its toll. The problem was that by this point every soldier had already told his neighbour his life story, including details both real and invented. A scar-faced sergeant with a drooping moustache suggested attacking the Prussian and Austrian contingents ‘just to keep our hand in’. His joke produced gales of laughter in the battalion. Margont wondered if this reaction would be enough to start a rumour and, if so, whether he should note down how these strange psychological shifts of mood came about. Saber rebuked the sergeant sharply. A few minutes later, the man could be seen running along the column, red-faced and brandishing his musket in the air, tirelessly repeating as he paused for breath: ‘Long live our friends the Prussians! Long live our friends the Austrians!’

Lefine caught up with Margont.

‘So, Fernand? Anything new from your men?’

‘Naught but the dusty road and swaying sward.’

‘Very funny. And what about von Stils?’

‘Two of my friends are actively searching for him.’

‘Good. Where’s your knapsack gone?’

Lefine displayed a pair of dice and kissed them.

‘Voltigeur Denuse has been carrying it for me for the last fifteen days, then it’ll be Sergeant Petit’s turn. Unless they get themselves killed, which would be the sign of a bad loser.’

‘You’re always playing with words, and people and the rules. One day it’ll end in disaster.’

‘In any case, life always ends in disaster.’

Lefine pointed at his shoes. They were worn through. Not even a vagrant would have wanted them.

‘I’d be surprised if my soles lasted out until Moscow.’

‘As long as it’s only your shoes that get left behind on the plain.’

‘You really have the knack of restoring the morale of the troops, Captain. Have you stopped gathering up your stray sheep to set them back on the right path to Moscow?’

‘The shepherd’s tired,’ Margont sighed.

‘I understand. Apparently the Emperor wants to have all the marauders shot as an example, which is the same as telling one half of the army to execute the other.’

‘The worst thing is that it’s not even certain whether the right half would be doing the shooting.’

A cavalryman hurtled down a hill and spurred his horse into a gallop to catch up with the column. He looked splendid in his yellow dolman and gilded helmet with a black crest and white plume.

Saber went up to Margont. ‘Just look at him! Who does he think he is?’

‘What is he?’

‘A show-off.’

Margont tossed his head impatiently.

‘He’s a trumpeter from the Württemberg Mounted Chasseurs,’ a corporal decreed.

‘A trumpeter!’ Saber said angrily. ‘A trumpeter without a trumpet wearing a captain’s epaulettes?’

‘There are a few yellow jackets among the Neapolitans,’ said Lefine, suddenly remembering.

Saber shook his head. ‘Saxony Life Guards!’

‘Correct, Lieutenant!’ shouted a voice from the ranks.

The officer was getting closer. Seeing Margont and Saber, he turned in their direction. His lofty bearing and disdainful air immediately earned him the regiment’s hostility and Saber’s hatred.

‘Just because he’s dressed in yellow he needn’t think he’s a ray of sunshine,’ muttered Lefine.

The Saxon brought his horse to a halt in front of Piquebois. His cheeks and nose were red from sunburn. This colour contrasted with the limpid blue of his eyes, which resembled two small lakes in the middle of a face on fire.

‘Captain von Stils, from the Saxony Life Guards.’

Piquebois introduced himself and the Saxon carried on immediately, as if he did not really care who he was dealing with as long as they knew who he was.

‘I’m looking for Captain Margont. He’s serving in your regiment.’

‘You’ve knocked on the right door, Captain. Here he comes now.’

Margont and von Stils saluted each other. Von Stils seemed put out.

‘A corporal came to tell me on your behalf that Colonel Fidassio from the 3rd Italian of the Line owed you some money and has been slow to settle up.’

Margont wanted to give Lefine a hug.

‘Absolutely. But whenever I try to have a talk with Colonel Fidassio, Captain Nedroni, his adjutant, stands in the way.’

‘His adjutant stands in the way?’ the Saxon spluttered. ‘And my letters are never answered!’

‘Since I’d heard that Colonel Fidassio was also in debt to you I thought that a joint approach might be more … profitable.’

‘I’m delighted to accept. If you’re available, let’s solve this problem straight away.’

Margont agreed and made his horse do an about-turn.

‘The Italians are to the rear.’

‘Even further to the rear? For almost the last hour I’ve been going up and down your army corps in search of the Pino Division and people keep telling me to go and look further to the rear. Are these Italians of yours still in Rome?’

Saber asked to accompany them. Margont agreed reluctantly. The plain, which stretched out as far as the eye could see, nevertheless seemed too narrow to him for two such large egos.

The riders were advancing at walking pace. They came across some stragglers who speeded up when they knew they were being watched, sleeping infantrymen and marauders. Von Stils looked them up and down contemptuously until they bowed their heads. A soldier from the 8th Light, his chest crisscrossed with two strings of sausages, saluted the three officers.

‘Looters do not salute!’ thundered the Saxon.

Margont, watching the feast move off, was practically drooling.

‘You speak good French,’ he declared to von Stils in an attempt to get to know him better.

‘It’s easy. French is a shallow and simplistic language.’

Margont refrained from retorting that it was minds not languages that were shallow and simplistic. They continued their journey in silence. Margont gazed at the plain. This unbelievable expanse of greenery was too great not only for the eye but also for the mind itself to take in. How could any country be so vast? It had swallowed up an army consisting of four hundred thousand men like a giant might have swallowed a chickpea. Saber grabbed his gourd and took a good swig of water. Margont did likewise but the tepid water hardly slaked his thirst. He noticed that von Stils was not drinking although his lips were cracked and the heat stifling. If the Saxon thought that this made him in some way superior, he had obviously not realised that the sun would always win in the end.

‘Were you at Jena?’ he asked out of the blue.

Margont shook his head. ‘We were at Auerstädt.’

‘It’s the same thing, isn’t it? The same day, two battles between the French and the Prussians allied with the Saxons and the same result: a complete victory for the French. Whether we were at Jena or Auerstädt in Prussia, each year we mourn the 14 October. I was at Jena, the Beviloqua Regiment, the von Dyhern Brigade, the von Zeschwitz 1st Saxon Infantry Division. You crushed us, slaughtered and decimated us … No, you did even worse than that.’ He gave a sad smile and added: ‘You said I spoke your language well but I still can’t find the right word to describe what you inflicted on us.’

‘Flattened,’ Saber kindly suggested.

Von Stils suddenly turned towards him. Margont noted that the Saxon exercised far better control over his thirst than over his anger, whereas with him it was the opposite.

‘You flattened us,’ the Saxon continued, emphasising the word. ‘Everything happened so fast … How can a war be lost so quickly? Do you play chess?’

‘Not very often but one of my acquaintances does,’ Margont replied.

‘Well, it was exactly like fool’s mate. The game has only just begun when your opponent tells you it’s checkmate. We were defeated, humiliated and sickened. I remember envying my comrades who’d been killed. To forget this disaster, I had myself assigned to the cavalry. I left the woman I loved, stopped seeing my friends, gave up my law studies, changed my haircut and moved house … It was as if everything belonging to the past was cursed. In fact, when all’s said and done, perhaps I really did die at Jena. Poor Louisa, she never understood. In a word, on this road from Paris to Moscow I feel I am moving in the wrong direction. I’m told to shout, “Long live the Emperor!” when I’d like to yell, “Fire for all you are worth!” The game of political alliances really is too sophisticated for my sense of patriotism. But I shall obey orders and fight bravely. And like my King, I pray that Napoleon will throw us a few crumbs of territory at the end of his Russian feast. However, you will excuse me if I’m not the most cheerful of companions. My legendary good humour has been … flattened.’

Margont forgave von Stils his haughty air. It was his way of keeping up appearances. They met a score of Polish lancers who were escorting Russian prisoners. Von Stils gave the Russians a pitying look. It was as if he were one of them.

‘The Cossacks! The Cossacks!’ Saber yelled suddenly, galloping forward.

Margont and von Stils unsheathed their swords with equal speed while the Poles turned in their direction. Saber was tearing across the plain, his sword drawn, not noticing that a lone lancer had followed him in his charge. Far from there, at the edge of a wood, three Cossacks were watching him. All were armed with lances – their best weapon, their standard, their trademark and, on top of all that, an extra limb. When Saber had covered three-quarters of the distance, they disappeared under cover of the trees.

‘He’s been flattened,’ von Stils declared.

‘Made a laughing stock would be nearer the mark.’

Saber resigned himself to turning back. Wild with anger, he was gesticulating, his sabre still in his hand.

‘Oh, the bastards! The swine! They aren’t soldiers, they’re clowns!’

Margont pointed at his sheath, urging him to put his sword back in it before he hurt someone. Saber thought that he was indicating more Cossacks and made his horse do a half-turn. He turned round again, more furious still.

‘They’re taunting me from the woods, are they? Is that it? Curse these wretched Cossacks! Why do they keep scattering like sparrows? What’s the point?’

‘Ask your horse. Even he knows the answer to that,’ Margont interrupted.

The poor animal had come to a halt. Mouth open, nostrils quivering, it was attempting to recover its breath. This type of repeated effort would kill it before long. It was impossible to get Saber to calm down.

‘They aren’t soldiers but militiamen! No, they aren’t even men, they’re too savage. Always yelling as they gallop, like wild animals. Centaurs … centaurs that have survived from the beginning of time! Why didn’t you follow me? I demand an answer!’

Von Stils stroked his mount’s neck. ‘I belong to the heavy cavalry. Our horses are stronger but have less stamina. They’re intended for charging in line, not for this type of chase.’

‘Quibbles! Quibbles!’ Saber exclaimed in the triumphant tones of a lawyer who has just unmasked a case of perjury.

‘Irénée, pull yourself together.’

‘And what about you, Captain Margont? What’s your excuse for inertia?’

‘I’m past the age of playing hide and seek in the woods.’

Saber bowed his head. ‘Gentlemen, allow me to take my leave.’

With that, he tried to spur his horse into a gallop but in its weakened state the animal only managed a fast trot.

‘Why does your friend hate the Cossacks so much?’ von Stils enquired.

‘Lieutenant Saber is very chivalrous and the Cossacks’ sudden raids are the opposite of his idea of a heroic military confrontation. As the Cossacks also have the bad taste to actually be successful …’

‘It’s true that the French military hate being defeated by peasants in rags. It goes back to the battle of Agincourt.’

‘Jena, the Cossacks, Agincourt. Could we stop talking about war, please?’

Von Stils nodded slowly. ‘With pleasure.’

He then launched into a long speech about Saxony. He described his country methodically and in detail, like an art expert analysing a painting by an old master. However, his chauvinism distorted the picture. The rivers were as clear as crystal; the towns the most beautiful in the world; the Saxon people possessed all possible qualities and a few more besides; the forests inspired poets, and you hadn’t really lived unless you’d visited Saxony …

Margont listened attentively and interrupted him to ask questions. He was preparing for the moment when he would try to find out more about Fidassio.

The two men met up with sixty or so gunners officered by the occasional Polish lancer. For the past few days there had been torrential downpours, turning the road into a vast quagmire. A gun had become bogged down in a rut and eight gunners were trying to free it. The soldiers were struggling with all their might, some leaning forward and shoving with the full weight of their bodies, others pulling on the wheels strenuously enough to tear ligaments. The team of horses was also doing all it could. But the cannon would not budge. Knees bent, the soldiers sweated, swore, and held their breath … to no effect. Margont said to himself that the whole army was like this cannon, bogged down and struggling against all the odds to continue its advance. Von Stils once again wore an expression that was both conceited and melancholy. He was gazing at the artillery pieces.

‘The famous Gribeauval cannon. Their muzzles have blown apart more than one enemy army.’

Margont went up to a captain who was nervously dusting off his jacket.

‘Where’s your escort?’

‘The Poles, you mean? Oh, heavens! A good third of them have deserted, another third are roaming around in search of food and the rest have gone to hunt the Cossacks over there,’ replied the gunner, pointing vaguely towards a wood in the distance.

‘So what are these Polish lancers doing with IV Corps?’

‘What of it? You’re with a Saxon Life Guard yourself! Their major was wounded in Smolensk. His men stayed with him and, now that he’s recovered, they are trying to rejoin their regiment. What a bloody shambles this campaign is, don’t you think?’

‘You’re exposing yourself to—’

Margont did not finish his sentence. A roar rose up from the plain. ‘Huzza!’ Three hundred Cossacks had suddenly emerged from a wood and were bearing down on them. They were dressed in black or navy-blue uniforms. The few Poles present rushed at them, considering the Cossacks their eternal enemies. As they too were wearing navy-blue uniforms, it was difficult to distinguish them from their opponents. Bodies fell to the ground and were trampled, the wounded screamed, pistol shots punctuated the air and strange entangled shapes moved about … The Poles were quickly overwhelmed and the Cossacks sprang up from all sides in the midst of the gunners. The gunners shot the Cossacks at point-blank range and were spiked through in return. A lieutenant close to Margont was nailed to a munitions wagon by a spear neatly thrust through his heart; the teams of horses were bolting, the Cossacks yelling at the tops of their voices: ‘Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!’