September 1812: L'Arrivée

Before Moscow waiting for the Boyars' Deputation
Vasily Vereshchagin (PD)

As the troops marched down the dusty track, Pierre Marais looked to his right, expecting to see the Emperor. At first he couldn't spot the man he'd followed since he was a young soldier in Egypt. At first he thought he saw the Emperor's horse, but without the man upon it, it was just a white horse, one belonging to the staff perhaps. Then he saw the man.

There he was, on foot, surrounded by aides, generals, and numerous headquarters flunkies, Napoléon Bonaparte, Emperor of France, gazing with a slight frown upon the city ahead. Moscow!

"What's all the fuss, Sergeant?" Antoine Plouffe from Calais asked. The men were starting to cheer, raising their muskets in the air.

"Listen, boy."

The shouts of Vive l'Empereur began to ring out down the long column of dusty infantry. Though Marais had seen it a hundred times, the old fire began to burn brightly in his breast.

"Cheer lads, there's your Emperor!"

Marais added his voice to the the chorus of shouting and adulation for the man from Corsica. He did it without thinking, it was habit. He was beginning to have his doubts, but deep inside, a part of him still believed.

"Beaufils! Has there been any word from the Czar?"

Napoléon hadn't meant to bark at the young member of the French diplomatic corps, but he was impatient. Winter was not far off and they were nearly 600 leagues from Paris. Rumors of unrest in the capital were starting to filter in. He assumed that what he was calling a victory on the Kalatsha River¹ would be well-received in Paris and quiet any discontent.

Albert Beaufils shifted nervously in the saddle, to have the unbridled attention of the Emperor was something of a new experience for him. He had seen Marshals of France shiver in their boots under Napoléon's gaze.

"Nothing, Sire. Our emissaries were turned away before St. Petersburg."

Napoléon turned his horse, "Turned away? Surely they were told something?"

Beaufils steadied himself, "My apologies, Sire. They were told that the Czar will treat with you only when the last of your soldiers has departed Russia. Or sleeps beneath the soil of Holy Mother Russia."

"Damn it!" The Emperor snapped at the heavens.

"Berthier!"

The Emperor's Chief of Staff spoke, "Sire?"

"Prepare a plan to march on St. Petersburg! Leave covering forces before Moscow. I will bring this aristocrat to heel!"

Without any further word, the Emperor moved towards the road. He would bask in the adulation of the army, with these men he could march to China, conquering all before him.

Sergeant Marais had his men cleaning up their quarters, a rough stable attached to a rather slovenly inn. The word was not to get comfortable, the army would be on the march soon.

"Sergeant?"

Marais turned to look at the young officer, now company commander after the death of Captain Monteil on the Kalatsha. "Yes, Lieutenant Leavitt?"

"Have you taken the roll?"

"Oui, mon Lieutenant, we have fifty seven men fit for duty."

"Is that all? We crossed the frontier with one hundred and forty two. Before the battle on the Kalatsha we had ninety eight."

Marais shook his head, he looked around the stable and then said, "War, lieutenant, it tends to whittle down our numbers. We had twelve killed outright on the Kalatsha, fifteen wounded, and fourteen unaccounted for. Of the latter I would assume that most of them are dead, or still lying where they fell, wounded maybe dying. Maybe not."

Some of the men looked up at that, all soldiers dreaded being left for dead, watching their regiment march away. To be left to the mercy of the elements and the peasantry was worse than being in a field hospital, itself almost a sentence of death.

"Have any of the other company officers turned up?"

It was obvious to Marais, the sole surviving sergeant in the company, that Leavitt was a bit overwhelmed by his new responsibilities.

"No Sir, you are in command of the 2nd Company until Chef de Bataillon Lecerf says otherwise."

"I see, very well Sergeant, see that the men are fed and ..."

"Fed with what, Sir?"

The young officer hesitated, it had seemed the right thing to say. Surely the men were hungry after the march, then again, he had no idea where the company's wagon was. Any food supplies would be carried on the men's backs now.

"I will ask Chef de Bataillon Lecerf his intentions as to our rations."

Marais shook his head, "Let me worry about the rations, Sir. We'll make do, as we always do, with whatever there is to hand."

The lieutenant blushed then turned on his heel and left.

Corporal Michel Kléber joined Marais watching the lieutenant quickly leave the stable.

"He's out of his depth, Pierre."

"Look Michel, we're the only non-coms left, Leavitt is green, the Kalatsha was his first battle. He is a babe in the woods when it comes to war. If any of us wish to return to France alive, it's up to you and me. There is no one else."

"What if Lieutenant Bébé², wants to play company commander?"

"You and I make sure he doesn't get anyone killed unnecessarily, that's all."

"That's asking a lot, Pierre."

"Lecerf's an old hand, he'll do what he can to keep the boy from getting us all killed. At least I hope so."

Kléber shook his head then turned to the men, "Knapsack inspection, if you've got food, it goes into the company pot. Pascal, Vaillancourt, Leclair, I want you three to search the vicinity for anything edible, check the inn first."

Soldat Claude Pascal stood up, "What about the Russians, Corporal?"

"If they don't get in the way, leave 'em be. If they want to tussle, give them steel."

The three men made sure their muskets were loaded, after affixing their bayonets, they went off to forage. Pascal hesitated.

Marais looked at the man, "Don't look for trouble, but kill anyone who tries to stop you."

"Anyone, Sergeant?"

"Russians, you muttonhead, now go!"

¹ The Battle of Borodino, fought on the 7th of September. The French referred to this as the bataille de la Moskowa, named for the Moscow River, of which the Kalatsha is a tributary.

² Lieutenant Baby.