Текст книги "Officer's Prey"

Автор книги: Armand Cabasson

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The sentry came bursting in.

‘Colonel, sir, the head of bread supplies and the head of meat supplies wish to speak to you.’

The colonel stood up. ‘I’d forgotten about their visit. The return game will have to wait for another time.’

Margont saluted him and, just as he was leaving, declared: ‘I’m very sorry I was not a more worthy opponent, Colonel.’

At chess, only at chess, he added to himself.

The man was not worrying about the investigation into Maria’s murder. He felt perfectly safe, hidden among the unending column of soldiers. In any case, crimes were so seldom solved … No, what bothered him was what was happening to him. As he walked on amongst the infantrymen and the dust, one thing became obvious to him: his fascination with death was not something recent.

As a lieutenant he had often gone into hospitals to view the dying. He attempted to capture that fleeting moment between life and death, the moment when the body becomes immobilised, when breathing itself ceases. He tried to commit to memory the change of expression on those faces at that fateful instant. But even a few years before that, death and suffering had attracted him. He attended autopsies, giving as an excuse his intention to study medicine. At the time he had put it down to a morbid curiosity. He had even read up on different types of coma. He wondered if there was one deep enough to present all the outward signs of death. During the dissections he enjoyed imagining that the man whose muscles had been separated and whose gaping abdomen was being prodded by the doctor’s instrument was still alive and that, although his coma prevented him from moving, his conscious mind enabled him to have a clear idea of what was happening.

In fact his fascination with death seemed to go even further back than that. As a child he had loved graveyards. He’d spent whole days in them. He knew where each tomb was, the names and dates of the dead … He was curious to know what corpses looked like after a day, a week, two weeks … He enjoyed watching apples on which he had drawn features rot away. They were his skulls whose skin withered as the flesh became damp and soft. He watched them shrivel and gradually disintegrate.

Even as a child … he had revelled in the death throes of ducks wounded by his father when out hunting: their fruitless attempts to get off the ground and fly again; their long silky necks twisting in a dance of death; the sharp crack of their vertebrae when he broke their necks to put them out of their misery.

The fact was that he had always been attracted by death, pain and blood, and he wondered why it had taken him so long to realise this obvious fact. It was yet one more question demanding an answer. His life seemed to have become a series of riddles.

CHAPTER 12

THE day of 22 July was particularly gruelling. IV Corps had covered fifteen miles and it was the third successive day that they had kept up such a pace. Margont spent the afternoon attempting to get hold of a horse. In vain. Even the mounted chasseurs had been ordered to give up their mounts to the gunners to enable them to make up full teams. So that evening he went to Colonel Barguelot’s on foot.

Twenty or so officers – captains and majors as well as a lieutenant-colonel – were sitting on the grass around a long white tablecloth that had been placed on the ground and laid with extraordinarily luxurious tableware: plates of Dutch china, crystal wine glasses, decanters, silver cutlery … Servants in powdered wigs were bustling about filling glasses and carving a roasted pig coated with a creamy sauce.

Margont put his shako and sword down on a table cluttered with headgear and bladed weapons of all shapes and sizes. He noticed a silver scabbard on which had been engraved in elaborate lettering, ‘Colonel Barguelot. Semper heroicus’. ‘Ever the hero.’

The colonel spotted him and, pointing at a place not far from his right, exclaimed: ‘Here’s Captain Margont! I’m always pleased to welcome a man of merit. Let’s put an Officer of the Légion d’Honneur between a major and a lieutenant-colonel.’

The higher one’s rank, the closer one was placed to the head of the table. As Margont was taking his place, he could sense he was being stared at by all the majors who had had to move down one place. Barguelot introduced his officers to him.

‘Captain Margont received his decoration in Spain,’ he explained. ‘Ah, Spain, what an ill-fated country. Believe it or not, I almost got torn to shreds in Madrid during the revolt of 2 May 1808, their wretched “dos de mayo”. The whole city went mad that day. I was calmly walking the streets with my friend Lieutenant Carré … Carrier … Damn, what was his name? Anyway, in a word, we were meeting up with two Madrid girls in a park when we noticed a sorry-looking dragoon. The poor chap had lost his helmet and his horse, and was breathless from running, sabre in hand. By the time I’d realised it was not a hallucination, a crowd had gathered at the end of the street and had started rushing towards us. Men and women, old people and children, some dressed in rags, others well dressed … One of the ringleaders was brandishing a rope with a noose at the end of it. My friend and I started to run. We fled down one narrow street after another until we emerged in a square, to be confronted by a horrific scene: the naked and emasculated bodies of two Mamelukes who had been hanged upside down on the façade of a house that some lunatics were setting fire to. The rabble was still on our tail. They caught up with the dragoon, who was out of breath, and tore him to pieces. When we reached the park where we had our rendezvous, we hid behind a hedge. But, believe it or not, the two traitors with whom we should have been billing and cooing pointed us out with their fans. ‘Por aquí! Por aquí!’ The bitches! Determined to die fighting, we turned to face our attackers. I ran my sword through three of the insurgents and my friend … Carsier, Carrier … did the same but, alas, he was pitchforked. I held out against this horde of fanatics for a few more minutes. Then, thank God, the cavalry of the Guard suddenly arrived in the park and cleared the area.’

The conversation about Spain became heated. Why did the Spanish resist the French presence so fanatically? Why did they reject the fruits of the Revolution? Why did they rise up en masse to defend a society that oppressed them? Margont felt particularly unsettled by these questions. Another debate also occupied their minds: would it not have been better to have got out of the Spanish quagmire before launching the Russian campaign? The Spanish campaign was mobilising a considerable number of French and allied troops to face up to the Spanish, the Portuguese and the English. In addition, there was concern about the Emperor being such a long way from the battlefield, especially since the English were involved.

Margont was watching Barguelot. It is said that all roads lead to Rome. Here, all comments led to Barguelot. So what if a captain had been at the battle of Roliça? He, Barguelot, had been at the battle of Gamonal. So what if someone admired Goya’s paintings but expressed doubts about their feelings for France? Colonel Barguelot announced that he knew the great painter well and, moreover, that the latter had started work on the colonel’s portrait. In a word, whenever someone had taken a hundred prisoners in one battle, Barguelot had captured three hundred in the next one, and it was as if each well-known person had said to himself, ‘Now that I’m famous, it’s time I met Colonel Barguelot.’

A servant placed a thin slice of pork on each plate. The finest tableware could not make up for the lack of food … Margont was very surprised to note that Barguelot ate nothing. He was not even served any food and did not touch his wine even though the claret was excellent, despite leaving the slightly bitter aftertaste of homesickness. Margont discovered that Barguelot had distinguished himself in numerous battles, owned a château near Nancy and had married a wealthy baroness, Marie-Isabelle de Montecy. Barguelot also mentioned his ancestors. He was from a long line of Dutch soldiers, the Van Hessens. His grandfather, the youngest son, had inherited nothing and, out of spite, had settled in France. He had had only one child, a daughter, so the Dutch name had died out. A procedure was under way to add the name Van Hessen to that of Barguelot.

At the end of the meal, Barguelot motioned discreetly to one of his servants. The man took his glass, poured a little more wine into it and placed it directly in the colonel’s hand. Barguelot rose to his feet and everyone did likewise, holding their glasses.

‘What a shame I haven’t had time to give you an account of the liberation of Copenhagen in 1638 by the Dutch fleet. One of my ancestors was involved as a ship’s captain. His ship was at the head of the squadron and distinguished itself by running the Swedish blockade. But it will have to wait for another time. Gentlemen!’

He brandished his glass and twenty others did likewise.

‘To Moscow, soon to be Paris’s little sister!’

‘To Moscow!’ all the officers replied in unison.

These fine words revitalised them as much as the good claret and they went their separate ways cheerfully enough, while all around them the horizon was studded with fires gleaming in the night sky. The next day the French would as usual be tramping through ashes.

The days that followed proved particularly frustrating for Margont. Despite all his efforts, he was unable to meet the other two suspects.

Colonel Fidassio was never available. Captain Nedroni, who assisted him, stood in the way. He played the role of compulsory go-between, the one who each time was sorry to say that the colonel was too busy for the time being but who would be delighted to pass on a message.

Nedroni took pride in his appearance without being ostentatious. His dark hair made his complexion look even paler, a feature that distinguished him from the other Italians.

Colonel Fidassio, whom Margont had managed to glimpse from a distance, seemed preoccupied. He rode alone, some way off from his regiment. The colonel was approaching thirty-five. His hair was brown, his huge face rendered even more thickset by his broad cheekbones. This brief portrait, sketched hurriedly and from afar, was all that Margont could obtain.

As for Colonel Pirgnon, he seemed very elusive. He was only rarely to be found with his regiment. Sometimes he would accompany a detachment out foraging for food; sometimes he would engage in conversation with the chief physician or with the person in charge of fodder; sometimes he would go off on a reconnaissance mission or gallop around on a horse taken from a Cossack to try to break it in. Margont had not managed to catch sight of him even once.

Lefine had recruited some men he could trust and the four suspects – four because Lefine, unlike Margont, considered that Delarse should not be ruled out – were watched discreetly day and night. Except for Pirgnon, who was followed whenever possible.

Time went by agonisingly slowly. Until 26 July.

On the morning of 26 July, IV Corps was in a state of feverish excitement. The Russians were there! Was it true? Or was it just a false rumour? No! The previous day the 1st Light Division of the 1st Reserve Cavalry Corps had engaged with the enemy in a serious skirmish. As was his custom, Marshal Murat, who was in command of this corps, had led a charge and wrought havoc. But the Russians were still there.

Prince Eugène was deploying his troops. An assault seemed imminent. Margont was waiting patiently at his position, in the Huard Brigade. This brigade belonged to the Delzons Division and, since this division was the spearhead of IV Corps, it would be in the front line of the attack. Like most of the officers and soldiers, Margont was completely unaware of the situation. He did not know if he was going to charge ten thousand Russians, fifty thousand, a hundred thousand … or three hundred thousand. Many of the combatants had come to terms with their ignorance of what was really at stake in the fighting, but not Margont. No, not knowing anything was exasperating for someone like him, who was so eager for knowledge of even the most useless kind (although for him it was impossible for any knowledge to be useless). So he did his best to make judgements from what he could observe.

Prince Eugène was prancing about from one end of his army to the other, followed by his flamboyant retinue of aides-de-camp, orderlies and generals. Everywhere troops were taking up position. The 8th Hussars, in their green pelisses, red breeches and shakos, had massed further ahead in the plain, in two lines. The Delzons Division was on the move – a long and broad column, dark blue and white in colour, topped by a forest of bayonets that glinted in the sunlight. Several regiments followed, wondering which of them would enter the combat and which would be held in reserve. The artillerymen were busy positioning their guns, crowding together to push a cannon or unloading munitions from the wagons. Elsewhere, squadrons of chasseurs were lining up, and regiments in column formation were hurrying forward. In the front line, skirmishers standing a few paces apart were taking shots at the Russians. The battlefield consisted of slopes, some of which were wooded, which meant that the Russians could not be seen. Only plumes of white smoke were visible from where their guns were firing.

‘Begging your pardon, Captain, but do you think this is the battle we’ve all been waiting for?’

‘How should I know?’ Margont replied curtly, without turning his head.

‘There wouldn’t be all this commotion just for a few Cossacks, would there?’

Margont had no appetite for talk, least of all for small talk. He was inspecting the lie of the land. In what direction would they be made to charge? Probably straight ahead. What could be seen from that forest of birch trees opposite him? Was there an easily defendable position that he could fall back to with his men if the attack went badly?

‘What’s that road over there, Captain?’

Margont sighed heavily and turned towards the chatterbox. The soldier could hardly have been fifteen years old. His face was covered in red or suppurating spots.

‘How old are you, boy?’

‘Twenty!’ the other replied, thrusting his chin out defiantly.

‘Say eighteen and you’ll be scarcely more credible.’

‘Twenty, Captain! And I’ve already caught the pox!’

Margont smiled. He’d wanted to make him think acne was the pox.

‘You’re a canny one, but stop talking so much. Make the most of the silence. There’ll be enough of a din when everyone starts firing.’

The young man puffed out his chest. A captain had just paid him a compliment! If it had been up to this adolescent, he would already have charged at the enemy with a thousand others like him, before even waiting for the artillery to prepare the ground.

‘Begging your pardon again, Captain, but why don’t you wear your Légion d’Honneur?’

Margont should really have been expecting this one.

‘So that I don’t lose it, and so as not to annoy the Russians even more. Wearing your Légion d’Honneur is like sewing on to your chest the inscription “Shoot at me”.’

The reply disappointed the soldier and he made no attempt to disguise it. Margont was not surprised. His reply had two advantages: it was sincere and it shut the other person up.

‘Captain Varebeaux and Sergeant Parin wear theirs.’

At this, the boy stood stock-still and did not utter another word.

Margont went back to examining the area. He was scrutinising the road to Vitebsk when a series of thunderclaps rang out. Tongues of flame and coils of thick white smoke were spewing from the French guns. Immediately, the gunners scurried about like excited ants. They were putting the guns back in place to compensate for the recoil, stuffing the water-soaked sponges of the rammer into the muzzles of the monsters, filling their long, hungry mouths with gunpowder, wadding and round shot, cramming it all down, then training it to adjust the aim … Finally, the firer, linstock in hand, looked straight at the chief gunner, waiting for the order to fire. A heavy, dense smoke built up around the batteries. The sound of mighty, earsplitting explosions could be heard. A hail of round shot rained down on the woods opposite the Delzons Division. The foliage of the birch trees rustled and clusters of torn branches fell to the ground. A shell exploded in a bush and two mangled bodies were tossed into the air for all to see. A roar of triumph greeted this horrific spectacle.

‘So, Captain, is it the Russians or not, today?’ asked Lefine as he reached Margont. ‘Whatever the case, company morale is good. For the time being …’

‘Fernand, I’ve been thinking a lot about this name “Acosavan”.’

Lefine blinked. ‘Well, this is hardly the moment, that’s for sure!’

‘After a lot of thought I realised that “Acosavan” is an anagram of “Casanova”. Perhaps it’s only a coincidence. But if it’s not, we can say that this man possessed a particularly ironic sense of humour. He was swearing to be faithful to Maria and love her for ever while his pseudonym was spitting in her face.’

‘Very interesting. Perhaps we could talk about this again after the battle, because I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but there is indeed going to be a battle. I suggest that first we deal with the Tsar’s armies. Then we can resume this conversation somewhere quieter. A mass grave, for example. Who knows?’

At that, Lefine went back to his position, muttering, ‘Between Saber, who wants to change all the battle plans and give Prince Eugène a piece of his mind, and this one with his head in the clouds, we’ve got a right pair! It seems to me that in this army the dafter you are the higher up you get. Apologies to the Emperor. If only they’d let sergeants take command of the army, everything would be fine, I can tell you.’

Eventually the order came through to move forward. The Huard Brigade, consisting of the 8th Light, the 84th of the Line and the 1st Croat, was at the front, to the left. Margont still did not know if he was heading towards practically empty woods or a teeming mass of enemy soldiers. In fact, near the village of Ostrovno, Murat’s cavalry and IV Corps had just engaged in a skirmish with the left flank of the Russian army. The latter was made up of the 4th Corps, commanded by General Count Ostermann-Tolstoy, reinforced by dragoons, hussars of the Guard, Soussy’s hussars and the artillery. He was also going to receive the support of General Konovnitsin, who had been put in command of the 3rd Division of the 3rd Corps. It was not yet the general assault the French so yearned for, but it might well turn into it.

CHAPTER 13

PART of the French infantry had deployed in line and was resolutely moving forward. At the head, lieutenants and captains were flourishing their swords or using them to point towards the enemy and exhort their men. They advanced with colours flying and drums beating. It was impossible not to think about death. Some were praying quietly; others humming martial tunes. They touched their amulets: a fiancée’s lock of hair, a wedding ring, a letter, a bonesetter’s charm. The loudmouths were boasting, ‘They still ain’t going to get me, just like at Eylau!’ ‘Here I am!’ ‘Stick around, green coats! I want my Légion d’Honneur, I do!’

Margont, at the head of his company, was for his part struck by the beauty of the world around him: the soft green of the plain, the darker green of the woods, the blue sky. What a shame about the heavy roar of gunfire. His blue eyes took in the greenery opposite. He remembered a childhood friend, Catherine: an adolescent love affair they had shared one summer in the countryside and broken off the following one. In between had been ten months of painful waiting and an exchange of letters riddled with spelling mistakes. What could have become of her? She was probably bringing up children while he was perhaps going to die like a dog in some foreign place.

He suddenly felt a violent shove in the back and fell flat on the ground. Ten or twelve soldiers slumped down behind him. Margont, staggered, still had no idea of what had just happened. A soldier rushed towards him. People were shouting. A black cannonball rolled swiftly along the grass, not far away. Another bounced off the butt of a musket lying on the ground, making it explode. Saber, wearing white gloves, lifted his friend up, grabbing him under the arms.

‘Are you all right, Quentin? Are you hurt at all?’

Margont managed to get up unaided. He was covered in dirt. Next to him a sergeant was dusting down his uniform.

‘Those Russian bastards! They think we’re already dead and buried, but we’ll show ’em.’

The line of infantrymen was filing past them. The woods were flecked with puffs of white smoke, large and small. Many Frenchmen were already strewn over the plain. Some were groaning as they tried to get up. Others were waving their arms pitifully or seemed to be asleep.

‘This time we won’t be tilting at windmills, eh, Quentin?’

Saber’s face wore a triumphant smile but Margont could read the fear in his friend’s eyes. Saber was putting on a self-assured air that would have charmed many a Parisienne. He was inventing his own stereotype, that of Lieutenant Saber the intrepid officer of the Imperial Army. He felt intuitively that over the years stereotypes sometimes became truths accepted by everyone.

Margont picked up his sword and the two officers resumed marching. The round shot and shells had made breaches in the line. Colonel Delarse, on horseback, was already twenty paces ahead of the brigade. A shell sprayed the infantrymen following him with splinters.

‘The devils can fire all right,’ muttered Saber, putting on a brave face.

The drummers beat the charge. The soldiers knew that music well enough! The line rushed forward, shouting. A corporal near Margont doubled up, clutching his abdomen. He did not fall but remained bent in this position, motionless.

A fusilier let out a squeal and began to limp, repeating, ‘They got me, the bastards!’

Saber pushed him forward with a violent kick up the backside. ‘Actors belong in the theatre. Real soldiers are in the front line.’

A lieutenant carrying the eagle standard was hit in the torso. Staggering, he handed over the precious banner to one of the supply sergeants of the flag escort, just before falling to his knees gazing at his wound. Two soldiers turned round to flee. The one faking an injury immediately did likewise.

Margont pointed his sword straight ahead. ‘Gentlemen, you’re wrong. The enemy is in this direction.’

Saber struck one of them on the thigh with the flat of his sword. ‘Get back into the ranks!’

The three men obeyed. Saber was often very forceful in driving away fear in others, probably because he also thought it effective for himself. The line was now followed by a large straggling group of soldiers, out of breath or slightly wounded. At last they reached the wood. Then, for the first time since the start of the campaign, Margont sighted the Russian infantrymen. They were dressed in white trousers, green coats and black shakos. The officers had cocked hats with white plumes, worn in the Napoleonic style, or caps. The Russians were squaring up to the French, supported against tree trunks as they took aim or reloaded, or massed in the line waiting for contact, bayonets pointing straight in front. Others were gathered around the gunners, who were hurriedly reloading.

The impact of the wave of French soldiers breaking against the wall of Russians was fearsome. A Russian colonel on horseback lowered his sabre and shouted something out when the French were a few paces away from his infantrymen. The enemy line opened fire, disappearing amidst coils of white smoke to the accompaniment of thunderous noise.

The French fell to the ground on all sides. Delarse’s horse was killed outright. The beast crashed to the ground before rolling on to its side, crushing the colonel’s thigh so that he clenched his teeth to stifle his cries of pain. Soldiers hurried to his rescue. The animal was quickly turned over and, as soon as Delarse was on his feet again, he limped back to his men. Butts were coming down on jaws, bayonets and sabres being thrust into flesh relentlessly, muskets being fired at close range. Margont, Saber and a few ordinary soldiers set upon the defenders of an artillery gun. Margont deflected a bayonet and ran his sword through the infantryman holding it. Saber slashed an artilleryman armed with a musket before pointing his sabre towards the officer commanding the gun.

‘I challenge you.’

‘Delighted, Lieutenant,’ the Russian replied in French, while saluting him with his sabre.

The fools, thought Margont. Saber positioned himself side on and lunged forward, aiming for the head. The Russian parried and counterattacked. Saber leapt nimbly to the side and sliced his opponent’s wrist three-quarters through. The officer turned pale, dropped his weapon and reeled. Saber put the point of his blade to the man’s throat.

‘Sir, you are my prisoner.’

The Russian gave a vague sign of acknowledgement, blinked and fell unconscious. Saber set about bandaging the officer’s wound. There were only two gunners left, encircled by a dozen Frenchmen. The first was sitting astride a soldier lying on the ground and hammering away at the man’s face with his fist. A blow from a musket butt rendered him unconscious. The second had only a fuse in his hand. The infantrymen keeping him at bay turned their heads in the direction of a nearby explosion and immediately the Russian rushed towards his gun. Margont had been suspecting such a ploy and leapt towards him. But he saw to his horror that the Russian was not attempting to fire the cannon and thus send Saber and those around him up in smoke. No, what he intended was to thrust the fuse into the bunghole of a powder keg. Margont brought down his blade on the Russian’s hand, slicing through the tendons and putting a quick end to his action. The gunner stood still as he was surrounded by men with bayonets. He clasped his wound with his left hand. Margont and he looked at each other bemused, the captain astonished by this suicidal gesture and the Russian rather embarrassed, like a child caught with his finger in the honey pot. Margont struck him a brutal blow in the face with the hilt of his sword. The Russian hunched up, screaming.

‘Pull yourself together, Captain, I beg you,’ a sergeant intervened.

Margont did not hear him. He was hurling insults, taut and wild with anger.

‘Poor fool! Madman! Fanatic!’

The prisoner was hastily led away in tears. Margont, motionless, arms dangling by his sides, watched the gunner leave.

The attack had been short-lived. Clusters of soldiers were still fighting but most of the Russians had fallen back. In the distance lieutenants could be seen waving their sabres to rally their men while the colonel who had given the order to fire, recognisable by his portliness, was breaking his horse into a trot to spur his troops on. The Russian musketeers were hastily reloading; the wounded bandaging a hand, an arm, a calf, a thigh or a forehead …

Colonel Delarse was shouting furiously: ‘Charge! Charge! Don’t let them recover! Come with me, Huard Brigade! Forward all!’

But the French were hesitating. He noticed Margont and rushed towards him.

‘Captain Margont, set an example! Charge!’

‘Colonel, the Russians far outnumber—’

‘So what? They’re only Russians! There were far more of them at Austerlitz.’

A roar of triumph interrupted the conversation.

‘The Russians are scarpering!’

The enemy front was retreating in good order. The French infantry, galvanised by the spectacle, rushed forward with a great roar. Then the Russian line changed shape. Its mass gradually thinned out as the numbers fleeing increased. It began to move faster and faster. The potbellied colonel seized hold of a flag and brandished the Russian double-headed eagle. The emblem stood out majestically against an orange disc rimmed with gilded laurel leaves and crested with a crown. The light green background bore a white diagonal cross decorated with laurel leaves and gilded crowns. Suddenly, without any warning, the Russians took to their heels. It was like a long dyke that had just given way under pressure. The French, giddy with success, were running around, leaping over the corpses and the tree roots. They felt capable of pressing on as far as Moscow in one go.

Margont stopped to take stock of the situation. He could hear the sound of fierce shooting on his right, way behind. He looked about anxiously for a senior officer. In vain. He grabbed a corporal by the arm, bringing him to a halt.

‘Where are Colonel Pégot and Colonel Delarse? And General Huard?’

‘I don’t know, Captain.’

Margont let him go and the NCO rushed straight ahead. Margont noticed Saber, who was examining the pelisse of a hussar lying at his feet.

‘Irénée, we’ve gone too far forward. We risk being surrounded.’

Saber noted the irresistible momentum of the French, who were carrying with them Russian musketeers, foot chasseurs and hussars, like a river sweeping twigs and branches along with it.

‘That’s clear, but we still have to pursue them to prevent them regrouping.’

‘But what about us? Shouldn’t we regroup, perhaps?’

‘I quite agree. Let’s catch up with Pégot or Delarse.’

‘But where on earth are they?’

‘Where? In front. Where do you think?’

The two men began running once more. Saber had the quirk of occasionally putting his hand on a tree trunk. He wanted to ‘touch wood’ whenever he was fighting. But he’d rather have been cut to shreds than admit it.

Twenty or thirty yards further on they reached the edge of the wood. Colonel Delarse was trotting back and forth to muster his troops. He was riding a magnificent Russian stallion. Victory could disorganise regiments as much as defeat. Delarse was signalling to the stragglers to hurry up, and to the overeager to slow down. Soldiers of the light infantry were herding the prisoners together. A lieutenant from the 8th Light was brandishing a sabre of the Russian hussars.