November 1812: Tout Est Perdu

Épisode de la retraite de Moscou
Joseph Fernand Boissard de Boisdenier (PD)

Lecerf opened his eyes, he felt as if he was suffocating. He struggled for a moment, then he remembered where he was, Russia.

He had been dreaming, he and his wife had been in a small café near Toulon, looking out over the sparkling waters of the Mediterranean, sipping a very good wine. The sun was warm and the sky was cloudless. Upon awakening he realized he had transitioned from a dream to a nightmare.

He could hear the wind howling but could not feel it on his face. How was that possible? He moved again, and heard a voice.

"Monsieur, please do not struggle so, you will disturb my friend. Can you not let him die in peace, Monsieur?"

Focusing his eyes, Lecerf realized that it was night, a small fire burned nearby. He was covered by something ... A bearskin, how was that possible? He tugged at it. Someone slapped his hand away.

"No, no, that is not yours, it belongs to my dear friend Henri. He has carried that all the way from the Kremlin itself. Leave it be."

Lecerf coughed, tried to speak, coughed again, then managed to croak out, "I am not trying to steal anything, I am simply trying to sit up. Where are we?"

"We are in Hell, Monsieur, can't you tell?"

"Hell?"

He heard the man sigh, and then a pair of hands gripped his shoulders. "Help me would you? I am not as strong as I once was."

With scant help from the man, Lecerf struggled into a sitting position. He realized that one man was lying across his legs, the other, who had helped him sit up, had been wedged against his back. Something seemed to hold the man in place, he couldn't move much.

Lecerf looked around, in the dim light of the nearby fire, not a campfire but a burning carriage, he saw the wreckage of an army.

He managed to speak, a bit more clearly now, "Who are you, kind Sir?"

"Ah, I am Edmund Poniatowski, a lancer of the Emperor's Guard. My friend is Henri Rousseau, he is a cavalryman as well, though not a lancer, he is a Chasseur of the Guard. Who might you be, Sir?"

Lecerf felt the cold now, the wind was tearing into him now that he was out from underneath these dying men. He cleared his throat, reached into his coat and found his small flask. He shook it, there was still liquid inside. He took a sip, he coughed, then offered it to the other man. Who shook his head.

"Why waste that on a dead man? Again, Sir, what is your name, we're alone now, I think Henri has crossed over."

Lecerf put the flask away and reached for the man across his legs. He was as cold as the snow around them. Henri had been dead for quite some time.

"I am Hervé Lecerf, late of the 57th Ligne, 2nd Battalion to be precise."

"Which company?"

"Ah, I am a Chef de Bataillon my friend, the whole battalion is mine. What's left of them."

"Ah, mon Chef, pleased to meet you. Henri, can't you at least say hello to our new comrade?"

"I think he is ..."

"What he is is probably the most taciturn man I've ever met. I'm not particularly loquacious myself, but you have to pry the words from Henri. He hasn't said nary a word for a while now."

Lecerf gently pulled his legs out from under the corpse, "He is dead."

Poniatowski sighed, "Ah yes, he is isn't he? Probably been dead for quite some time. Sorry, but my mind wanders. Could you do me a favor, mon Chef?"

"If I can."

"Tell the Emperor that Caporal-fourrier¹ Edmund Poniatowski did his duty. Give him my apologies for dropping out of the ranks, but my dear horse died under me. Now, I think ..."

Only the wind made any sound. Lecerf's new companion was dead.

Lecerf had wrapped the bearskin around him, the dead Chasseur had been wearing a pair of what appeared to be boots made from felt. He now wore those. He sat by the burning carriage for a few moments, then stood.

He staggered to the edge of the small gulley he had been in, in the distance, through the blowing snow, he thought he saw the army. Slowly moving towards the horizon, it seemed to be shedding as it moved. Lecerf realized that he was seeing the stragglers at the tail of the column, and they were falling like the dead leaves of autumn.

He shook his head, his face felt funny. Bringing his left hand up to his nose he touched it, and felt nothing. "Frozen," he muttered. I'm freezing to death, bit by bit.

Behind him, there was someone, he turned slowly.

A very ragged-looking man sat atop a small horse, his lance couched. He was smiling. A Cossack!

"Ty daleko vid domu, frantsuze!²" the man chuckled as if he hadn't a care in the world.

He nudged his pony, urging the animal forward. But the horse didn't like the smell of the bearskin apparently, the animal shied away from Lecerf.

The man swore and tugged on his reins, Lecerf used the distraction to draw the pistol he had taken from one of the dead cavalrymen, he knew it was loaded as he had done that himself.

The pistol popped and the Cossack gasped, "Svolota!³" before falling from his pony where he thrashed for a moment before going still.

Lecerf didn't move, he wanted the horse and didn't want to spook it. The Cossack still held one of the reins tightly clenched in his hand. Lecerf looked around for a weapon, best to make sure the Cossack was dead.

Nothing, then he noticed that the Cossack's lance had fallen a few feet from the man. He picked it up, warily eyeing the man on the ground. He thrust the lance into the man's chest. He made no sound, nor did he move.

Satisfied that the man was dead, Lecerf slowly approached the horse. The animal was skittish, but Lecerf managed to calm the beast.

He mounted and sat as the animal calmed down. Looking at the scene, he realized that the dead Pole had been correct, he surely was in Hell. Why did the Sisters who taught him in his youth say that Hell was hot? He thought he knew the truth now, it was frozen, bereft of light and heat, bereft of life itself.

Time to follow the army. He used his knees to nudge the horse in the direction he'd seen the column. He had to reach them and quickly, he wouldn't survive out here alone.

¹ Quartermaster-Corporal.

² Ти далеко від дому, французе! (Ukrainian - You're a long way from home, Frenchman.)

³ Сволота! (Ukrainian - Bastard!)