Текст книги "Officer's Prey"

Автор книги: Armand Cabasson

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 26

ON 15 September the Grande Armée reached Moscow. Napoleon had admired it the day before, in the company of the vanguard, from Poklonnaya Hill, the Hill of Salvation. He had declared: ‘Here it is, then, this famous city’, before adding, ‘It is high time.’

Reaching Moscow caused an indescribable outpouring of joy. The regiments could see the columns ahead of them gesticulating on a hilltop and shouting: ‘Moscow! Moscow!’ The soldiers simply could not believe it. They speeded up, muddling their ranks, which the NCOs, with much swearing, then had to attempt to disentangle. The Hill of Salvation was blocking the view; Moscow was still only a dream, a city they had heard so much about but which perhaps did not exist, a sort of Russian Eldorado. But once they had reached the summit, suddenly Moscow stretched out in all its immensity. Everywhere were church cupolas and gilded onion domes, splendid palaces, whole districts built of stone, vast avenues … Moscow, with its Baroque and Byzantine architecture, belonged to a different world from that of Paris, Vienna, Berlin and Rome. This was already Asia.

Margont felt as if he were discovering a city from the tales of the Arabian nights. He bowed down and made the sign of the cross out of respect for this wonderful city and because that was the custom for Russians when they gazed at this holy city from the Hill of Salvation. However, he crossed himself in the Catholic, not the Orthodox, way. Then, like everyone else, he began to shout: ‘Moscow! Moscow!’ because this word was so great, so magnificent, that it alone filled his whole mind. He repeated it, yelling for joy until he was hoarse.

Saber, arms outstretched to the heavens and sabre drawn, was exclaiming: ‘Victory! Total victory!’ Lefine, who was too much the pragmatist to believe in dreams, muttered, ‘It’s not possible, it’s not credible …’ Piquebois, wanting to greet the city in his own fashion, was stuffing his pipe with the last pinch of tobacco that he had kept for the occasion. His face seemed composed but his fingers were trembling. The fighting, the hunger, the extreme tiredness, the lost comrades: all were forgotten.

Feasting their eyes on palaces and the red ramparts of the Kremlin, the 84th went down towards the city in perfect order because they had to be impeccable to show themselves worthy of Moscow. ‘I’m in Moscow’: the phrase rang in their ears like the pealing of the bells of a whole city. Everything was over, no one doubted that for a second. The Tsar was on his knees and the Russian army in pieces. Alexander would sign the armistice and they would spend the winter here, with spoonfuls of caviar in their mouths, being treated like princes.

Disillusion set in as soon as they entered the former capital. The city was absolutely silent. The regiments and squadrons followed one another in columns but there were no crowds as they went by. For a moment they thought that the people had locked themselves away in their homes. But there were no faces to be seen at the windows. They realised that Moscow had been deserted. Panic and the evacuation orders given by Count Rostopchin, the governor-general of Moscow, had emptied the city. Of the three hundred and twenty thousand inhabitants, the only ones left were those of French, German or Italian extraction, the destitute, the wounded who could not be transported, and the deserters.

Margont looked about him on all sides. He marvelled at every sight. The wide, straight streets, some lined entirely with mansions and palaces surrounded by gardens the size of parks, offered superb vistas. The famous fortress of the Kremlin was the jewel of Moscow. Its surrounding wall of red brick was topped with white, swallow-tail battlements and it was protected by numerous towers. The walls allowed glimpses of gilded cupolas crowded together, turrets decorated with faïence and small bell towers. They envied those who would be privileged enough to have quarters there while they watched over the Emperor, because he deserved nothing less than the Kremlin.

Prince Eugène set up his headquarters in Prince Momonoff’s palace, whose luxury bordered on the incredible. The 84th was allotted a sector. Margont, Lefine, Saber and Piquebois chose a pretty little house and went inside laughing, convinced that the worst was behind them.

Margont was in a deep sleep. His dreams were not in keeping with the day’s brilliant spectacle. He saw an actor on stage, wearing a toga like a classical tragedian and holding a smiling mask over his face. The stranger changed his mask with such speed that Margont did not even have time to glimpse his face. This second, sad-looking character aroused pity. Another change made him resemble a child seeking protection. Then it was the face of an honest-looking man before becoming that of an adolescent enraptured by his own youth. The stranger was also a magician and he conjured up the masks at will. Margont was staring at the figure. He wanted to know if it had its own face or if it was only a hollow shell. But at the same time he wondered if it would be possible to tell the difference between this genuine face and yet another flesh-coloured mask.

He was roused from his sleep by someone shaking him violently. He had difficulty opening his eyes. Piquebois’s face was leaning over his own.

‘Quentin, for heaven’s sake! The house is on fire! Wake up!’

A cloud of thick black smoke was already pouring in through the bedroom door while white smoke was filtering through the gaps in the floorboards.

‘We’ve taken your belongings. The others are already outside. Come on!’

Margont got dressed in a flash. However, the two men were unable to get through the doorway. The corridor was nothing but a blazing shell. The constant sound of crackling flames could be heard, frequently drowned out by a great crash as part of the ceiling collapsed. They retreated back inside the room. Margont made a dash for the window and opened it. For a second he was taken by surprise. How could that be? Was it daylight already? Why hadn’t he been woken up early in the morning? Then he realised that it was still the middle of the night. But in many parts of the city fires were devastating whole neighbourhoods and the brightness rivalled that of a summer afternoon. Down below in the street, Lefine and Saber were waving their arms about.

‘What the hell are you doing, Quentin? Get out of there!’

Margont disappeared before returning with sheets and clothes in his arms. He knotted them together as fast as he could. Saber was holding a horse’s bridle in each hand. The panic-stricken animals were neighing heart-rendingly. Lefine was having great difficulty controlling his terrified konia, which was edging backwards, not noticing that everything behind it was also on fire. Margont slid quickly down his makeshift rope, gritting his teeth as the material peeled the skin off the palms of his hands. Piquebois did likewise and the four men hurried away without having the slightest idea where to go to escape from the flames.

‘Over there,’ decreed Saber, rushing off in one direction.

They found themselves face to face with a group of hussars from the 8th Regiment who thought safety lay in the opposite direction. Most of them had not even had time to put on their pelisses or their shakos. Dressed only in dirty shirts and red trousers, they considered themselves lucky to have retrieved just three of their mounts.

‘Don’t go that way, the streets are on fire!’ exclaimed Saber.

‘It can’t be worse than where we’re staying!’ retorted a barefoot trooper, who had flung himself on the neck of his beast to calm it down.

Another hussar was ranting and raving, sabre in hand.

‘It’s the Russians who are setting fire to their own city.’

‘That’s impossible!’ said Margont angrily. ‘It’s some irresponsible fools who’ve knocked over candles while ransacking houses or have lit fires and haven’t kept an eye on them. It’s drunkards who are the cause of this damn mess!’

But the hussar was categorical. ‘I agree with you that drunks are responsible for some of the fires, but several fire-raisers have already been arrested. Russians. Some have confessed in front of the firing squad that Count Rostopchin gave the order to set fire to the city. He got policemen to disguise themselves as beggars and emptied the prisons. They’ve caught convicts who were completely drunk going along the streets throwing torches through windows.’

‘I can’t believe such a thing. They’re liars,’ Margont stubbornly maintained.

‘Well, how do you explain the fact that there’s not a single fire pump left in the city? Rostopchin had them all taken away!’

While Margont was trying to overcome his consternation, the two groups were arguing. Unable to agree, each of them decided to stick to their original conviction. Two hussars and the single mount they were sharing did, however, join Margont and his friends.

The heat was becoming extremely hard to bear. Sweat was pouring from their faces, running into their eyes, soaking their bodies and making their clothes stick to their skin. They passed between two rows of rustling, crackling flames. Explosions rang out at regular intervals, nearby or further away, sometimes isolated and sometimes in succession like a firework display. The sky looked amazing. It was a shifting kaleidoscope of colours: the black of the smoke merging into the black of the night, a thousand varying hues of glowing orange, the yellows sometimes paling into incandescence … It looked like a vast canvas smeared with thick layers of gouache. A mansion collapsed on itself with a terrifying crash. The horse belonging to the two hussars whinnied as it reared up. It brought its forelegs down heavily, almost crushing the foot of the one holding it by the bridle, and kicked out with its hind legs. The second hussar received the full force of one of its hoofs in his stomach. He was flung against a wall and fell, hunched up, to the ground. The mount reared once more and finally freed itself. It wanted to flee but, realising that it was surrounded by flames, it began to go round in circles. The buildings were threatening to collapse.

Margont shouted to the hussar to abandon his animal and to help his companion but the hussar stubbornly refused. Margont wanted to go to their aid but had to give up because the horse kept kicking out and whirling round on itself.

Lefine led his companions down a side street and they found themselves in a square. On two sides the buildings were on fire and the wind was blowing great quantities of white-hot ash about. It was like watching a gigantic swarm of fireflies landing all around. A volley of shots rang out and Margont realised that it was a firing squad shooting for all it was worth. The infantrymen were reloading as fast as they could. Some of them were walking among the bodies and finishing off the wounded by shooting them in the head. There were so many prisoners that they didn’t even bother to clear the dead bodies.

‘Who are you shooting?’ Margont enquired of an adjutant, who was trying to speed up the executions while keeping an anxious eye on the spread of the fire.

‘Fire-raisers. They’re convicts and fanatics … Look at them. They’re as drunk as lords!’

Faced with the muskets, some punched their chests to urge the French to open fire. The flurry of shots made Margont jump. A ragged individual, toothless and shaven-headed, approached him with a smile. Margont didn’t recognise him. Was he a soldier he had fought? Someone he had met in Smolensk? The man spoke to him in Russian.

A corporal put a friendly hand on his shoulder and, responding to his smile, said to him: ‘Come on, leave the captain alone and go back to your comrades. We’re going to shoot you. You’ll like that, won’t you, getting pumped full of lead?’

The condemned man nodded his head several times. The corporal burst out laughing, proud to have made his point.

‘The Russians have even emptied their asylums, Captain. They’ve put torches in the hands of lunatics and let them loose on the streets.’

Margont wanted to plead the man’s case.

An adjutant, anticipating his protests, decreed: ‘We are shooting all fire-raisers and I’ll have anyone who tries to interfere arrested.’

Margont and his companions moved away while the simpleton leapt about with joy: it was his turn at last to stand in front of the wall where the men were giving a fireworks display with their muskets.

The men of the 84th decided to stay in this square until the blaze died down. But a shower of ash came and buried their hopes. The light-coloured confetti soon changed into thick flakes, which became so numerous as to make it difficult to see. It was like being in the middle of a burning blizzard. Each intake of breath was agony because the heat made the lungs hurt and the debris caused endless coughing. Even drinking did not help. Worse still, the ash contained burning remnants.

A prisoner screamed as his mop of hair caught fire. The firing squad was not fast enough and had to complete its dirty task by rushing at the last captives with their bayonets. They didn’t want to finish them off because they thought the fire would do it for them. The adjutant bawled out his orders. They would put the wounded out of their misery, then they would form a column and finally they would evacuate the square. But his men had already disbanded. Undeterred, the adjutant grabbed two saddle pistols and began shooting at those writhing in pain on the ground.

To their great regret Margont and his friends had to abandon their horses for fear of ending up disembowelled or having a hand severed if they kicked out. They dived into a narrow street but they could hardly see a thing because the ash was so thick. They covered their mouths and noses with bits of their shirts to filter the air. So as not to lose anyone on the way, they advanced in single file, holding on to one another by the belt. At the sight of so many riches going up in smoke, soldiers were rushing into houses in an attempt to rescue food and treasures from the flames. As he passed, Margont heard dozens of them screaming as a blazing roof fell in or sections of a wall collapsed on top of them.

At last they reached a neighbourhood that had been spared by the fires. The houses, built of stone, and the gardens, had acted as fire breaks. The considerable number of soldiers gathered here had formed a human chain right down to the Moskva. All sorts of containers were being passed from hand to hand to douse new pockets of fire. But more and more were starting up as blazing debris flew through the air in all directions.

‘I told you it was this way,’ Saber reminded them.

He was woken by an explosion nearby. As he dressed hurriedly he thought that the Russian army was attacking Moscow to dislodge the French, though he knew this supposition was absurd. Distraught soldiers came to inform him that the city was in flames and, at first, as he rushed out into the inferno with a few men, he feared for his life. Then, gradually, he became mesmerised. He took advantage of the confusion caused by the collapse of several buildings to disappear into the maze of streets.

While other people were running for their lives amidst this labyrinth of stone, wood and fire, he just strolled about. He gazed in delight at the houses devastated by flames. Near a crossroads he heard calls for help coming from a dwelling with a burning roof. He rushed up to the door. He could hear voices nearby. He seized his scabbard and placed it so as to block the handle. A moment later it turned several times but as its movement was impeded it could not loosen the bolt. There was frantic banging on the door while the handle continued to be jiggled to no effect. The bars on the windows prevented any other way of escape. People were shouting and pleading in Italian. There was a dreadful noise as the roofing collapsed, followed immediately by screaming, terrible screaming that was like music to his ears. The man imagined their bodies. He could see the flames licking their skin, turning it red and covering it with blisters. He pictured their hair and their clothes catching fire in one burst and their mouths and throats filling with fire at their last intakes of breath. He could hear the screams of pain of those transformed into human torches and, finally, the dull thud of the bodies falling. He breathed in the smell of burnt flesh. It intoxicated him like strong alcohol. He thought of the charred bodies, shrivelled by the burning of the tissues and the evaporation of their fluids. He would have liked to open the door to gaze upon these hunched-up corpses as black as lumps of coal, but he was afraid of being struck full in the face by a wave of flame set off by the draught. He put on one of his gloves to retrieve his burning scabbard and continued on his way.

His footsteps were guided by screams of agony. He noticed a man leaving a house that was reduced to a whirlwind of flames. He was one of the few inhabitants to have stayed behind. He was frantically beating his shirtsleeves to extinguish the white-hot debris scattered all over it. He smiled, thinking that the man was coming to his aid. A look of amazement spread across his face when he saw the pistol and the barrel of the weapon pointing in the direction of the house. He was being told to … go back inside. He put his hands up as a sign of surrender and moved slowly to the side to show that he would slip away without causing any trouble. The bullet struck him full in the chest. Two sentries, who had been present at the scene, ran up, muskets in hand.

‘He was a fire-raiser. He was the one who set fire to the house,’ the officer told them immediately.

The soldiers saluted and went off again. The man continued on his way, looking out for every opportunity to revel in the slaughter. After a time, even the fire of Moscow was not enough to slake his thirst for blood. Then he wanted to believe in God again in order to believe in the devil.

He imagined himself in Hell. The rustling and the crackling were caused by gigantic creatures devouring the damned. He conjured up the most loathsome monsters imaginable that would do justice to the sermons of the sternest of preachers: Cyclopean ring-shaped worms intertwined, their jaws swarming with tentacles that seized those trying to escape; flies’ eyes whose myriad facets reflected screaming faces; mouths filled with rows of fangs that tore their victims to pieces … He could see immense shadows sprawling amongst the fiercest fires, crushing whole areas beneath their weight. More worms, covered in protuberances, laboriously hauling themselves out of a gigantic pit that went deep down into the infernal abyss, where everything was immeasurably worse than here. What existed within the secret of this chasm was beyond mere human understanding. The man took a few steps towards the abyss. He wanted to throw himself in, but the heat became too intense and forced him to retreat. He set off in search of streets that were enveloped in flames but where he would be able to move about. The night was still young. He would have more opportunities to see death and to kill.

CHAPTER 27

FOR four days Moscow burned. More than four-fifths of the city was destroyed. Twenty thousand people perished in the flames.

Margont and his companions had set themselves up in a suburb that was relatively unscathed. Margont decided to go back to his original quarters in the hope of retrieving some belongings. Several times he got lost in this apocalyptic landscape. While some streets were blocked with fallen debris, elsewhere the flames had opened up the thoroughfare by wiping out entire blocks of houses. The residences and bell towers that had previously acted as landmarks had disappeared. Margont was surprised by the capriciousness of the flames: sometimes for no apparent reason a house had survived in the midst of a wasteland of destruction. Soldiers from every regiment were beavering away amidst the foul-smelling wreckage. They unearthed valuables, opened up trapdoors leading into cellars … Many were drunk – drunk on vodka, rum, beer, wine, kvass, punch or a mixture of them all. Margont came across infantrymen dressed up as marquises, strutting about in fur coats and sable hats, cashmere or fox fur jackets … The women they were with, canteen-keepers and sutlers or Muscovites, were laughing as they gazed at their silk dresses woven with gold and silver thread, and their fingers dripping with rings and precious stones. The streets were littered with an assortment of objects: mirrors with elaborate frames, paintings, ivory combs, crockery, statuettes, candelabra, rings and necklaces set with malachite or semi-precious stones, ceremonial pistols, clothes, books, samovars, carvings, pipes … The looters were picking up any item they could find, only to throw it away again twenty paces further on when they laid hands on something more valuable. Margont caught sight of Piquebois, who was also trying to find their former quarters.

‘Hey, comrade, what a sad sight!’ Piquebois exclaimed. ‘Looters and ashes. They’ve gone mad watching the city go up in smoke. It’s impossible to control anyone.’

A smell of rose-tinted tobacco was coming from his silver Russian pipe.

‘The most ridiculous thing,’ he went on, ‘is that they haven’t understood a thing. What’s valuable today is not gold but food. They’ll make a fine sight when they try going back to France with their knapsacks overloaded and their stomachs empty …’

What Margont had just heard seemed obvious to him, yet at the same time he refused to believe it.

‘Going back to France?’

Piquebois’s face, usually so composed, looked worried. ‘If the Russians have deliberately burnt down their capital, there’s little chance that they’re intending to make peace.’

Margont remained silent. Piquebois meanwhile was watching the few remaining inhabitants wandering amidst the wreckage. Most were desperate and in rags, alarmingly thin and starving. Some were tearing strips of flesh off the carcasses of animals to feed themselves. Others were diving into the Moskva to retrieve the wheat that the Russian soldiers had thrown in before evacuating the town. But the fermented grains made them ill.

‘We’ll soon look like them if we don’t get a move on before the winter,’ he prophesied.

The two men carried on walking.

‘Lefine and Saber have managed to collect a considerable amount of food: cucumber, onions, beer, sugar, hams …’

‘Hams?’

‘Yes, hams. As much salted fish as you could wish for, fat and flour. But no bread. Potatoes as well.’

‘All the same, we’d be well advised to start rationing ourselves now.’

Piquebois pointed at Margont with the end of his pipe to show his approval.

‘Fernand is trying to get some horses for us. We’ll need to be on our guard because, if the army really does have to withdraw, soon people will be killing one another for a mount.’

‘And they’ll end up slitting one another’s throats for a potato.’

They stopped in front of a church that had been spared by the blaze. People were congregating there to pray and to find shelter. Margont gazed at the walls, which were painted red and a delicate green.

‘It’s incredible,’ said Piquebois in surprise. ‘There’s no soot on the walls. I’m going to start believing in God.’

Margont pointed at the crowd dressed in rags.

‘They’re the ones who’ve cleaned it.’

They eventually found their former quarters. There was nothing left. However, someone had propped up a charred beam. A message written in French was pinned to the wood:

Frenchmen,

My name is Yuri Lasdov and this house was mine. I was only a shopkeeper, and this building and my two grocery shops constituted all my worldly goods. Just before fleeing the city with my family, I personally threw all my stock into the depths of the Moskva. I left one of my employees behind in Moscow to set fire to my beloved home in case any French dogs should take up quarters in it. I asked him to burn it down during the night in the hope that some of your kind would be roasted alive.

May Russia be the grave of France.

Margont went back to his new quarters. A lieutenant was pacing to and fro at the front entrance, waiting for him. As soon as he caught sight of Margont he looked up to the heavens in gratitude and hurriedly took him inside. Colonel Delarse was dying and wanted to speak to him.

‘Has he been injured?’ Margont enquired.

‘No. An asthma attack. One of the worst he’s ever had. It’s because of the fire: he’s inhaled ash.’

A Baden soldier dressed up as an Orthodox priest was drunkenly babbling away in made-up Latin, blessing the passers-by. The lieutenant angrily pushed him away with all his might as he passed, sending him flying on to the cobbles. The would-be priest called down on him all the curses of Heaven and Hell combined.

‘He’s spoken to the colonels in the division. Then he asked for you as well as several other officers.’

‘I feel flattered to have been sent for. What’s his reason for wanting to see me?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

Colonel Delarse’s quarters were in a mansion whose architecture was modelled on Versailles. Margont reflected yet again on the number of ties there were between Russia and France. This war seemed crueller than ever. Delarse was lying in a four-poster bed draped with veils to filter the air. Before even catching sight of him at the far end of his dark bedroom, you could hear him wheezing. The exhausted colonel was holding a pencil between his fingers.

‘Good day, Captain Margont,’ he scribbled on one of the sheets of paper lying on his blanket.

‘Good day, Colonel.’

‘I think it’s the end. Spare me those “of course nots” and other such nonsense.’

Margont nodded. The air entered Delarse’s lungs easily but then became trapped inside. Breathing out was slow and painful.

‘I’m not afraid. I have two mothers, my own mother and death. Both nurtured me as a child, both cradled me in their arms, both think of me constantly and both occupy my thoughts too much. I write this because my mother was so possessive that sometimes she was more stifling than my asthma. I tried everything to fight death: to deny its existence, to despise it, to plead with it, to taunt it … In combat I ran every possible risk as if to say to it: “Come on, come and get me! Do what you should have done long ago!” Sometimes I would even think that the fact of my still being alive was one of the many small things that were wrong with the world and that I should put it right. Sometimes, contrarily, I would expose myself to enemy fire to prove I was immortal.’

The pencil moved across the sheets of paper with surprising speed and no sooner had Delarse covered one with writing than he let it drop to the floor and started on the next. It was true that time was short …

‘One day I understood that by behaving like this I was merely re-enacting my childhood. Because even when I was well I needed to dice with death by playing silly games: jumping from tall trees, swimming as far as I possibly could … Anyway, the fact is that after every battle, once the danger was over and my concentration wandered, I was always surprised that I was still alive. One step forwards, two steps backwards. What cruel game was death playing with me?’

Delarse had become so emotional in writing these lines that his breathing quickened and became even wheezier, and his writing more untidy.

‘While thousands of soldiers were covering themselves in eternal glory at Austerlitz, I was choking at an inn. That says it all, doesn’t it? As an adolescent I read the biographies of Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar. Both suffered from epilepsy and I thought that my asthma would not count against me any more than their fits did against them. It looks as if I was wrong. But you must be wondering why I’m telling you all this. Well, your colonel told me that you were keeping a journal about this campaign. Is that correct?’

‘Absolutely, Colonel. But I didn’t realise that Colonel Pégot knew about it.’

Delarse’s face lit up. ‘So you’re writing your memoirs, are you?’

‘For the time being my plan is to launch a newspaper. Amongst other things, I shall recount the Russian campaign.’

‘Censorship will turn it into a walk in the country!’

‘In that case, instead of cutting out the censored passages, I’ll cover them in ink and people will go and protest beneath the windows of the prefect, brandishing the black pages.’

Delarse smiled. He did not have enough breath to laugh.

‘On a more serious note, Colonel, I shall point out to my readers that it’s an “official” version of the campaign. Then, as soon as I can, I’ll publish the real version, in the form of articles, memoirs and first-hand accounts.’

‘That’s why I sent for you. I hope you will tell people who Colonel Delarse was. I have struggled to ensure that my life amounted to more than just my asthma. I do not want to be remembered as “the asthmatic colonel the Russians didn’t even have to kill themselves”. And then there’s the general staff! They look at me in the pitying and frustrated manner of those watching a man die whilst implicitly criticising him for not cutting short this moment which is “painful to all concerned”. Change that! Say what I did for the brigade. Talk about the Great Redoubt! Tell people that I lived life to the full, that I did great things, even though I was haunted by death.’

‘I shall do so. Is there anything else they should know about you, Colonel?’

Delarse looked at him wearily. It was difficult to read his expression. Margont wanted to repeat his question but the colonel’s new adjutant was already ushering in the next visitor. The fellow had taken it upon himself, given the circumstances, to speed things up.

*

That same evening Margont had to move once more because his quarters had been requisitioned by the Pino Division. He refused to set himself up in the house allocated to him.

‘Too inflammable for my liking,’ he declared, patting the wooden walls with the flat of his hand.