A Cruel Winter

By Richard Turner

In 1812 during Napoleon’s disastrous retreat from Russia, Captain Christopher Fitzgerald of the Irish Legion must match wits with an evil that has laid dormant for centuries but is now free to prey on the thousands of people desperate to survive the brutal cold and the swarms of Cossacks waiting to take revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Turner
• Release date: Oct 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463759691

Richard Turner

Richard Turner proudly served his country for more than thirty years, all across the globe.He wanted to try something new and now spends his time writing.I am an avid reader and especially like reading all about history. Some of my favourite authors include: James Rollins, Andy McDermmott and the many novels of Clive Cussler.

Book preview

A Cruel Winter

BY RICHARD TURNER

Copyright 2019© Richard Turner

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the authors.

Smashwords Edition

The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.

H.P. Lovecraft

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1

Something was coming.

Locked in perpetual darkness, lacking form, it hungered and waited. Time had lost all its meaning. It could have been locked away a week, or for centuries; there was just no way for it to know. Deep down in the pit of its dark soul, it could sense the outside world was tearing itself apart. War had come again. Death and starvation stalked the land, mercilessly taking the innocent along with the guilty. Just beyond its prison, it felt the death throes of people dying in their thousands.

Ever so slowly its powers were returning, fed by the horror happening just beyond its reach. It stirred and raged against the tomb it had been locked in for so long. There was only one way to escape. It needed someone to be weak. A hungry mind was a weak mind. With so many fighting to stay alive, it wouldn’t take long before someone came close and then it would have its freedom and its revenge.

2

Russia

November 1812

Who are you? thought Captain Christopher Fitzgerald, as he looked at his dirty face in a cracked mirror. Like almost everyone else in Napoleon’s retreating Grand Army, he had let his hair grow out. For the first time in his adult life, his hair hung over his ears. A thick, black beard covered his face. Fitzgerald ran a comb through his scraggly hair, trying to get as many of the irritating lice he could out of it. Ever since leaving Moscow, the tiny bloodsuckers seemed to be everywhere on his body and in his soiled clothes. Fitzgerald thought about shaving his hair off to get rid of the lice, but decided he needed it more to keep his head warm. The mites would have to stay for now. His once bright-blue eyes were bloodshot, and mirrored his growing fatigue. With little or no food to be found, his once-muscular body had grown slim and wiry. He doubted his mother back home in Ireland would recognize him if she were standing right next to him.

Sir, it looks colder out there today than yesterday, said Sergeant Phillipe Jourdan dourly, staring out at the bleak, snow-covered countryside. Haitian-born, with a barrel-chest and muscular arms, Jourdan was a skillful soldier and a loyal friend.

I hate to break it to you, Phillipe, but it’s going to get a hell of a lot colder before too long, replied Fitzgerald, pulling on a pair of heavy, woolen pants over his lighter, summer ones. He tucked both pant legs into his solid winter boots and stood.

I’m sorry, sir, but there isn’t much for breakfast, said Jourdan, handing his colleague a tin plate containing a crust of stale bread, a thin slice of hard cheese, and a tiny morsel of smoked ham.

Thanks, said Fitzgerald. He looked down at his meager meal and recalled growing up in a family of six children. There was never much to eat back then, but compared to what he was about to eat now, it seemed like a king’s banquet.

Since we’re leaving today, sir, how about some brandy to wash it down? said Jourdan, holding up a nearly empty bottle.

Why not? Pour yourself a glass first, and then give me what’s left.

Jourdan emptied the bottle into two small glasses. To France, he said, holding up his drink in a toast.

To Ireland, replied Fitzgerald, winking at his comrade. He shot the brandy back in one gulp, the amber liquid warming his insides as it slid down his throat.

Jourdan scooped his meal into his mouth and placed the empty plate on the table. Shall I get the horses ready to leave?

Yes, please. Today, we’ll push on and try to reach Borisov.

Jourdan scrunched his brow. Sir, isn’t that a bit of a stretch in this weather?

It is, but we have no choice. If the army gets there before us, there won’t be a single scrap of food for us to eat, or a barn for us to lay our heads down in.

Yes, sir. And the gold?

Fitzgerald looked over at four wooden boxes filled with gold they had been trying secretly to smuggle out of Russia. With only four of our original six horses barely still left alive, Fitzgerald paused to think. Pack one crate per horse. It looks like you and I will have to walk to Borisov.

Sir, that’ll really slow us down, groused Jourdan. What if I could rig up a sled for the crates?

Fitzgerald shook his head. The horses are fading fast. I doubt they could take the extra strain of pulling a sled on their weakened bodies without dying.

I suppose you’re right, sir. I’m just not overly fond of walking through the snow when I don’t have to.

Fitzgerald shrugged. There’s nothing you or I can do about it. Sometimes life’s just not fair, Phillipe. For a man who has seen combat all across Europe, you still need to learn to roll with the punches. Now, will you please see to our horses, and make sure they get something to eat before we leave?

Yes, sir.

Jourdan turned to leave when there was a loud bang on the front door. A man with a gravelly voice called out, By order of the emperor, I order you to open this door immediately.

Fitzgerald picked up a pistol from the table and cocked its hammer. He locked eyes with Jourdan and nodded. The hulking sergeant walked over and opened the door. A bitter breeze flooded inside the once warm shack. A man covered in snow walked in, removed his fur cap, and brushed the snow from his body. His eyes fixed on Fitzgerald.

Am I addressing Captain Christopher Fitzgerald? asked the man, guardedly.

You are, he replied.

My God, Christopher, with that beard I barely recognized you, said the officer shaking Fitzgerald’s hand.

It’s good to see you again, Colonel.

You, too. I see Sergeant Jourdan is still with you.

Jourdan nodded. Someone needs to keep an eye on the good captain.

True enough, said the colonel, as he unbuttoned his greatcoat and handed Fitzgerald a crumpled letter.

Fitzgerald opened the letter and started to read.

Believe it or not, Captain, you’re an incredibly hard man to find, said the colonel.

When you’re escorting millions of stolen francs in gold, it’s good to be hard to find, Colonel Dujardin, said Fitzgerald, not bothering to look up from the letter.

General Foy, the emperor’s chief of intelligence, was worried that you’d been captured or killed by the Cossacks. Dujardin walked over to a small iron stove and warmed his hands. You two were lucky to find a building still standing. I thought the Russians had torched everything along our axis of retreat.

As you found out, sir, we’re a good five kilometers off the army’s main path, said Jourdan.

Yes, and I’m surprised the locals didn’t turn on you and kill you.

Jourdan patted one of the boxes and smiled. We paid well for their protection and their silence.

Dujardin raised his right eyebrow. So, I take it neither of you have been with the army since Smolensk?

That’s right, sir. Captain Fitzgerald and I have been moving independently of the main body. We were planning on rejoining the Imperial Guard in Borisov.

Dujardin eyed Jourdan suspiciously. Sergeant, if you’ve haven’t been with the army for several weeks, how did you know it’s heading for Borisov?

Jourdan smiled. Monsieur Fitzgerald and I have our ways, sir.

Dujardin chortled. If you ask me, an Irishman and a Haitian working together is an odd combination.

Fitzgerald raised his head. It’s worked for the past four years, Colonel, so I doubt General Foy will be splitting us up anytime soon.

No, probably not.

Captain, what do our orders say? asked Jourdan.

Fitzgerald passed his friend the letter to read. It would appear that we’ve been assigned a new consignment of looted treasure to look after.

Surely not? What will become of this gold?

Your work here is done, said Dujardin. I’ve been ordered to take possession of your gold and take it with me back to headquarters. Therefore, I’ll have to confiscate your horses to carry the gold, as my two horses are on their last legs. Also, do you any food with you in this hovel? My men and I are starving.

Jourdan faced Fitzgerald. Please, sir, not the horses.

Fitzgerald glumly nodded. It’s stated in the orders.

A cold shiver ran down Jourdan’s back. I hate walking in the snow.

You’d best get used to it, Sergeant, said Dujardin. From here on out, you and Captain Fitzgerald are going to be doing an awful lot of walking.

A snow-covered corporal pushed the door open, walked inside, and saluted Dujardin. Colonel, we’ve secured the horses. Did they say if there’s anything left in here to eat?

Well, Christopher, do you have anything you can spare? asked the colonel.

Sir, aside from some slivers of stale bread and a nearly empty bottle of red wine, there is nothing left, said Fitzgerald.

I don’t believe you, said the corporal, his right eye twitching. Where the hell did you hide the food?

What you see on the table is all that there was left over from breakfast, replied Fitzgerald, trying to keep the tense situation from escalating. I was hoping to buy some more food once we reached Borisov.

You’re lying. We were told back at headquarters that there were smoked meats, bottles of wine, and armfuls of cheese to be found here.

Fitzgerald shook his head. Whoever told you that was wrong.

Steady on, Corporal; you’re addressing an officer, cautioned Jourdan.

The soldier reached for his bayonet.

In one fluid motion, Fitzgerald brought up his pistol and aimed at the corporal’s head. I wouldn’t do that if I were you, he warned. I can’t miss from this distance, and I’d be well within my rights to blow your brains out.

With a curse on his lips, the junior NCO took a step back.

Step outside, Corporal, said Dujardin, sternly. I’ll deal with you later.

Yes, sir, grumbled the soldier as he exited the shack.

Please forgive Corporal Henri, he hasn’t eaten in days, said Dujardin.

Hunger always brings out the worst in men, said Fitzgerald. However, I’d keep a close eye on him if I were you, sir.

I shall.

Fitzgerald and Jourdan picked up their heavy winter clothing, packs, and weapons. They donned their fur-lined greatcoats and quietly stepped out into the blowing snow.

Dujardin climbed up on to the saddle of an emaciated horse and looked down. Captain, you and Sergeant Jourdan will report to General Loison. He knows you’re coming and will help you with your new assignment.

And where will I find the general? asked Fitzgerald, hefting his pack onto his back.

Dujardin pointed down the path. Start walking that way, and you’ll soon find the central column. Luckily, you won’t be going to the very rear of the army, because that’s at least forty kilometers away and you’d probably never make it, as the countryside is swarming with Cossacks and mobs of peasant militias, neither of which are taking any prisoners.

That doesn’t sound very good, said Jourdan.

It gets worse. The Russians have also managed to cut the army into several smaller groups. All of which are trying to fight their way through the enemy lines to rejoin the main body. General Loison is currently acting as a divisional rearguard commander.

How far away is this rearguard? asked Fitzgerald.

No more than an hour’s march from here, maybe two, replied Dujardin.

Cossacks?

All I can say is be alert. They’ve been using the forests for cover. We shot two about a kilometer back down the trail.

Phillipe, make sure your shotgun is loaded before we leave, ordered Fitzgerald.

Captain, I won’t lie to you about your chances. The army is in complete disarray. You both appear to be in relatively good health. If you stay calm and keep your wits about you, you should be able to make it out of this frozen hell-hole alive.

Don’t worry about us. Just make sure the gold makes it to the emperor. He’s going to need it to help rebuild the army.

Dujardin tapped his horse’s sides with his frozen boots and urged the horse forward, through the knee-deep snow.

Captain, do you think that’s the last we see of that man? said Jourdan, wrapping his woolen scarf around his face to block the bitter wind.

Who can say? said Fitzgerald. Come on, let’s see what awaits us at the rearguard.

It didn’t take long for the falling snow to cover the two men, making them look like a pair of living snowmen. When they finally emerged from the woods, a gut-wrenching sight awaited them. Thousands of weary soldiers silently trudged past, their heads down. Any person who fell out of line and collapsed in the snow was instantly mobbed, their clothes ripped from their bodies while they were still alive. Their naked bodies were left on the side of the trail to freeze into horrid, icy statues. Near-dead horses faced an equally tragic fate, as they were slaughtered and hungrily cut to ribbons.

A rumble in the distance caught Jourdan’s attention. He glanced up at the leaden sky. That’s odd, I thought I heard thunder.

I don’t think that was thunder, said Fitzgerald.

No. Then what was it?

Cannons. Ours, I think. Probably a battery of six-pounders, trying to keep the Russians at bay.

I guess we’re getting close to the rearguard, remarked Jourdan, unenthusiastically.

It sure looks that way. I know how much you hate the cold, but hold your head up, and let’s try to make a good impression.

Before long, bloodied and injured men hobbled past, begging for medical help. Fitzgerald tried to drown out their distressing pleas. There was nothing he could do to help them. The limited medical support there had been in the army before the retreat began had long since vanished. Anyone who suffered a critical wound during the long march to safety was doomed. An artillery officer missing his left arm below the joint walked away from the column and out into an open field. He calmly drew his pistol and blew his brains out, startling Jourdan. No sooner had his body hit the ground, when two men ran over and fought over the dead man’s still-warm greatcoat.

My God, sir, said Jourdan. This place is worse than hell.

I’m afraid it’s about to get a lot worse, replied Fitzgerald, pointing toward a long line of ragged-looking soldiers with a couple of cannons. They were firing at a group of Russian Cossacks, finishing off the crew of a gun that had gotten stuck in the deep snow. That’s the rearguard, and that’s where we’ll find the general.

Fitzgerald spotted an officer on horseback just back from the line, and walked toward him. General Loison, sir? he inquired.

The senior officer climbed down from his horse and looked at Fitzgerald through tired eyes, as if he didn’t belong there. Yes, I’m Brigadier General Loison. And you are?

Fitzgerald saluted and handed the general his papers. Sir, my name is Captain Fitzgerald, and I’ve been assigned to look after the division’s supply wagons.

Fitzgerald, I think I’ve heard of you. You were in Spain a few years back, weren’t you?

Fitzgerald nodded. Yes, sir, I was.

I hate to tell you, but you’ve come at a particularly bad time, Captain. I can’t afford to release any of the men in the rearguard to help you with your task until nightfall.

Sir, my orders come from General Foy and are quite specific, said Fitzgerald.

Captain, I see that, but we’re barely hanging on by our fingertips. This ragged band of men is euphemistically called the divisional rearguard. In reality, it’s what’s left of the bulk of the division. There’ll be no divisional supplies to guard, if the Cossacks break through our lines and seize it for themselves.

Fitzgerald could see he’d have to wait for help. I understand, sir. Which unit were you planning on assigning the task of guarding the wagons?

The 29th infantry regiment.

Until you can pull them off the line, I’d like to meet with the commanding officer of the 29th to discuss this assignment.

Loison chortled loudly. That’ll be easy. As of now, I’m appointing you their new commanding officer. All of their other officers are dead or too seriously wounded to fight. Loison indicated to the left side of the rearguard. Those forty-three men and one lieutenant are all that remains of the regiment. Until nightfall, Captain, orders from the imperial headquarters or not, I expect you to do your duty and keep the Cossacks from getting past us. Because if they do, there’s no one back there to protect the sick and wounded. Do you understand your orders?

Fitzgerald came to attention and saluted. Yes, sir. I will do my best.

Excellent, Captain. Carry on.

Loison got back on his horse and rode off, leaving Fitzgerald bewildered. Although an infantry officer by training, he hadn’t served a single day in a regiment for nearly five years. He was rusty, and he knew it. A cannon in the middle of the line fired, shaking Fitzgerald back to the here and now.

Sir, did the general say there were only a handful of men left alive in the regiment? asked Jourdan.

Yes. When they entered Russia, there were probably about eighteen hundred men in the regiment; what you see over there is all that is left.

Captain, I hate always to sound like I’m being overly pessimistic, but that doesn’t bode well.

No, it doesn’t. Now, let’s see who’s in command, said Fitzgerald, striding toward the remnants of the 29th.

Close up the ranks and mark your targets, bellowed a sergeant major, walking along the rear rank of the regiment.

Sergeant Major, where are your officers? asked Fitzgerald, forgetting that there was supposedly only one junior officer left.

Mister Delon is over there, replied the sergeant major, pointing over at a pile of stripped corpses.

Steam rose from one of the still-warm bodies. A shiver ran down Fitzgerald’s back. He cleared his throat. What happened to Delon?

A shot pierced his neck a few minutes ago. Luckily, he passed on quickly. The poor bastard was only eighteen years old. The veteran soldier looked over Fitzgerald. And you are, sir?

My name is Captain Fitzgerald, and I am your new commanding officer.

The sergeant major came to attention and saluted. My apologies for being so rude, sir.

Think nothing of it. What’s your name, Sergeant Major?

Sergeant Major Gilles Pinon, sir.

Fitzgerald walked closer, and noticed for the first time that there was a deep scar running from the top of Pinon’s scalp, through his closed left eyelid, and down his chin. Sergeant Major, I’ll be blunt. I’m an infantry officer who hasn’t served a day in a regiment in over five years. I’d be appreciative if you were to continue your duties and give me advice when I need it.

Sir, that’s about the smartest thing an officer has ever said to me. But as you can see, we don’t have anything resembling a regiment left still standing.

General Loison said there were forty-three men still standing.

Pinon shook his head. This morning there were forty-four of us, including Mister Delon. With your arrival, there are now thirty-eight all ranks in the 29th .

Good God, if this keeps up there’ll be no one left by nightfall.

A soldier let out a moan and dropped out of the ranks, holding