November 1812: Le Sauvé¹

Retreat from Moscow
Franciszek Kostrzewski

Lecerf let the pony make its own pace, he was satisfied to keep the column in sight and keep the animal going in that direction. He was wary of his surroundings, where there had been one Cossack, there were probably others.

He had taken the Cossack's furry, and very verminous, cap for his own. It was made of some sort of sheepskin, as near as he could tell, it was that filthy. But it kept his head warm and with the lady's scarf he had "liberated" from a corpse, his face was now protected as well.

He had taken the Cossack's pistol and shot, as he had no more ammunition for the one he had taken from the dead lancer. He had also appropriated the Cossack's saber. Though the man's garments had been filthy, his weapons were well taken care of.

He had a bag of fodder for the pony, the Cossacks were well known for taking care of their mounts, and a stale crust of bread, also taken from the dead Cossack.

Lecerf ached all over, when the cannonade had struck the brigade he had been caught up in the general retreat. He had tried to stop the men from panicking to no avail. He had been knocked down in the retreat and trod upon by more than one man, desperate to live.

He looked up, the tail of the  column he was chasing was nearly at the horizon, in a few moments they would be over the small rise and lost in the terrain and the swirling snow. He nudged the pony to go just a bit faster. As he did so, he heard a shout behind him.

More Cossacks!

Marais was with the rear guard, he was determined to bring the survivors of the 57th out of Russia, but the cold and the exhaustion of the men was defeating his efforts.

"Martin! Get on your feet lad, one foot in front of the other! Come on now!"

As he reached the man who had collapsed, he saw that all of his exhortations would be futile, Martin had collapsed and died. Just as his will had given out, so had his body.

"Damn it!" he snapped at no one, at nothing.

"Lieutenant, we are being pursued." The calm voice of Sergeant Christophe Blanchard made him look down the track, littered with French corpses.

Not far off, perhaps at twice a musket shot was a man on one of those tough little Cossack ponies. Further beyond, at 12-pounder range², was a party of perhaps a score of Cossacks. Marais wondered why the single horseman was so far in front of his comrades.

"Sergeant."

"Sir?"

"Muster me a firing party."

"Sir!"

As Blanchard selected the men he would need, all still armed, all still ready to fight, Marais saw a puff of smoke from the larger party. Why would they be firing at one of their ...

"Stand by Sergeant, the man in front is French, the others are Russians."

"How can you tell?"

"Well, the larger party fired on the single man, he's either one of ours or a deserter."

Lecerf heard the ball whistle past his ear before he heard the pop of the Cossack's carbine to his rear. He dug his heels into the pony's flanks and the shaggy beast sped up.

To his front he saw that he had been noticed, a ragged line of men was forming, muskets at the present. Good Lord, was he to be shot by his own army?

He started screaming at the top of his lungs, "Vive l'Empereur!" and he continued to scream as he drew within musket range.

"That's no Cossack, Lieutenant. He rides like an infantryman!"

Marais watched as the pursuing Cossacks drew their sabers and began to scream "Oorah!" as they got closer to the lone man ahead of them. They scented blood and had no fear of the ragged column from Napoléon's wrecked army.

"Steady lads, the one in front is one of ours. Be ready to take that second bunch under fire. Steady lads ..."

The lone horseman knew his business, veering his mount at the last second to avoid the line of soldiers, their muskets now at the ready.

"FIRE!!"

The lead Cossacks tried to rein in their mounts, they hadn't expected to be fired upon. Nevertheless, five ponies crashed to the earth and two other saddles were emptied by the close range volley.

Lecerf's pony collapsed as he reined up in the midst of a number of angry looking soldiers. With a bayonet in his face, he stood up. Having seen one man's shako plate with the "57" upon it, he threw off the Cossack's filthy cap and roared ...

"So you'd bayonet your own commander?!!"

The man who had been about to skewer him went pale, "Chef de Bataillon Lecerf? Is it you?"

"No, you simpering ape from the slums of Marseilles, it is my f**king ghost!"

Then he looked towards the horse which had saved his life, "No ..."

The men were already butchering the dying animal.

Marais looked with concern at his battalion commander, "That nose needs to be looked at, Sir. It is white as the snow, I see red patches forming. Sir, you have frostbite."

Lecerf touched his nose, it felt like ice. He began to try and rub it to get his circulation going. "Where is the Brigade surgeon, I'm ugly enough without losing my nose."

Marais shrugged, "He is back in Krasnoi, perhaps he made it out, we haven't seen him since the cannonade."

"What is the holdup here?" a very perturbed Lieutenant Leavitt had arrived, his face went pale as he saw Lecerf.

Lecerf chuckled, "So you have the battalion now, André?"

"No Sir, I have the brigade, well, now I guess you do. We have three hundred or so left." Leavitt glanced at Marais.

"We've lost ten or so in the last hour, but three hundred is close enough. We should get moving again."

Lecerf nodded, "Lead the way, André. You command the rear, Pierre?"

"I do, Sir."

"Very well, let's get moving. We have a river to cross if I'm not mistaken."

As Lecerf and Leavitt moved off, Sergeant Blanchard asked Marais, "The Berezina?"

"Yes Christophe, we're close. Pray for it to be frozen."

Blanchard shook his head, "We're all freezing to death and I'm to pray for ice?"

Then a thought struck him, a frozen river wouldn't require a bridge, they could march across if the ice was thick enough.

"Ice it is then." Looking to the heavens, he crossed himself and prayed for ice.

¹ The Saved One

² Twice musket shot would be roughly two hundred yards, Marais would think in terms of the effective range. At 12-pounder range would be roughly 850 yards.