The Retreat by Patrick Rambaud

Author:Patrick Rambaud
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780802198044
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

Five

BEREZINA

‘This year a group of mallards had their feet frozen to a pond’s surface, and now a bald eagle busies himself swooping in and tearing off their heads.’

Jim Harrison, Just before Dark

IN THE SHATTERED HOVEL in the suburbs of Smolensk, there were no planks or beams left to sustain the fire their survival depended upon, so they had to set off again, keep on walking, find better shelter and food. Dr Fournereau, Ornella and the rest of their wretched band were gathering together their possessions when one of them, who had pushed back the palisade to look outside, grabbed Fournereau by his black bearskin cloak. ‘Mira! Mira! Las puertas!’ The doctor put on his gloves. Hordes of men and women were climbing from all directions towards the open gates of the city; if it weren’t for the fact that they sank into the snow at every step, the doctor and his troupe would have run to get ahead of the crowd. The bitingly cold air cut to the bone. Keeping close together, they planted their feet in the snow mechanically, their brains switched down, moving on instinct, like hunters. The Emperor had just set off towards Minsk with his Guard; his headquarters staff was packing up and the servants were selling Bordeaux from the Imperial cellars at twenty francs a bottle. No officers were able, or inclined, to bring the chaos under control. The soldiers, stragglers and fugitives wouldn’t listen to anything but their stomachs. They were besieging the stores where the supply commissaries had barricaded themselves whilst they waited for hypothetical orders.

The snowstorm had veiled the piles of bodies, studding the road that climbed towards the citadel with white mounds. Halfway up, Fournereau and his dependants merged with the thousands of people banging furiously on the massive shutters of the main warehouse. From a first-floor window, Comptroller Poissonnard was haranguing the crowd. ‘Wait! There’ll be some for everybody!’

‘What are we waiting for?’

‘We have to get the rations organized!’

‘We’ll organize them ourselves! Open up!’

‘Wait …’

‘Shut up, little piggy, or you’ll end up on a spit.’

A barouche whose horses had been taken by the artillery cleared a path, drawn by voltigeurs, and with the crowd helping to push it, smashed into the door; a leaf started cracking, which fifty hands tore clean away. Slats went flying to make the opening bigger. Then without a word, with the force of a torrent, the crowd surged into the building and fanned out. Fournereau held Ornella by the arm; the rest of his band followed him. They let themselves be swept into a room full of crates that a big uhlan in a tricorne was hacking open with an axe. Held aloft on outstretched arms, two-handled baskets were passing over people’s heads; those at the front looted the beans and bags of flour and rice; those behind bounded up the staircase. On the first floor, the commissaries had jammed the doors shut with bars, but they couldn’t withstand the massive pressure. The besiegers discovered a new stockroom where Poissonnard was preparing to flee.

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