Guy De Tournet, Child of Revolution, Son of France: Papaha

By Denise Cory Blake

Russia.with its wild untamed lands of vast open Steppes, of marshlands, of rivers, of unfathomable people, some as wild as their country, yet with a culture of religion, of art, of buildings of great beauty. Into this forbidding landscape came the French with all their arrogant innocence, proclaiming a victory they had yet to win.

Amongst them Guy De Tournet, Captain of cavalry, who kept silent vigil over his own thoughts. It would take more than defiant words to win this war. It would take men, blood and guts. His and that of other valiant Frenchmen; the cannon fodder.

The year was 1812, the antagonists Bonaparte, who fashioned himself like a Roman Emperor, and Alexander I , the suspicious autocratic Tsar of all Russia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546283485

Denise Cory Blake

I have been writing historical novels for the last four or five years now. This is my latest offering, born of an inquisitive, inquiring mind, which despite my advancing years refuses to lay dormant. I keep coming up with new storylines. Long may I do so!

Book preview

OF muskets, muscles, and

men-trrumm!

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            The cacophony of noise

            The cheerful banter of soldier boys

            The clutter of arms,

            Such simple charms!

            New uniforms donned,

            Hats crazily doffed,

            Food hurriedly scoffed

            Amidst pennants and eagles,

            Flags waved aloft!

            Proudly they beat the drums,

            All fingers and thumbs!

            Such was the cornucopia of war,

            Allegiance they swore

            As they marched fourscore

            And some, to the beat of the drum!

            Yet to hear the cries of battle

            Yet to see the blood

            Hear the death rattle!

            Yet to feel the pain

            Of wounds sustained,

            Of choking smoke, of fire,

            The funeral pyre.

            Of cordite in the air,

            The blare of raucous voice,

            A soldier’s choice?

            Amidst the thunderous cannon roar,

            Deafening, stifling, exhilarating in its glory!

            The age old story?

            Forsaken-the ultimate betrayal

            In Gethsemane’s garden?

            They did well in Dante’s inferno

            Their vision of hell,

            As they felt the kiss of death

            Upon their brow.

Chapter One

The trees rustled listlessly in the dying breeze, whilst the windblown dead leaves beneath their horse’s hooves crunched ominously, making it seemed, much noisier in the silence of the forest which surrounded them as the patrol probed ever deeper into its secret depths. There was no birdsong to be heard anywhere. The silence was almost deathly in its intensity, making the motley band of men even more uneasy, than they needed to be. Not only, did they not look the part, but in actuality, they weren’t in any respect whatsoever: A hastily thrown together assortment, the sweepings of the gutter, some whimpering Italians, forever complaining vocally, some other foreigners of dubious origins, some raw recruits, who knew nothing, and were never likely to, afraid even of hobgoblins, and evil sprite’s which they were told frequented the woods surrounding them, and those thrown out of lockups last minute, as a parting gesture. One such, was the sergeant, a man at least that had some experience of soldiery, but for the most part, this war weary, tobacco chewing veteran, let drink rule him. He was always into fights, in and out of trouble, lucky to keep his stripe and the skin on his back. All were ill disciplined, ill-disposed to fight, and for the most part, a disgrace to the flag of France. They were scared and some bore the scars of their enemy skirmishers, so their agitation was great. Their Captain’s lot was not a happy one. What seasoned soldier’s he still possessed, he kept close by him. For even he, did not trust his own men. They were as likely as not, to slit his throat, as obey any orders he gave them.

They crept as softly as they could through the trees, keeping as close to one another as possible, for creature comfort, or protection, was unsure, foraging for anything at all they could eat. It had been days since they had last eaten, and it had been a week or more now since they had tasted bread, their stomachs rumbled in protest, beneath an assortment of regimental uniform which should have marked them out as humble infantry men. In tatters of blue, red, and white uniforms, their hats askew, if they still possessed one, for in truth, these remnants of cloth now barely covered their bodies.

Their original uniforms which would have been worn with a great deal of pride one would have hoped: of flat topped shakoes, red festoons with brass eagles on them: their blue coats edged with red collars and cuffs, would have been faced with white and cut away to show waistcoats beneath, epaulettes at their shoulders, rolled grey overcoats atop their cow skin knapsacks would have completed the picture. Broad white cross belts, and black gaiters to well above the knee would have shown briefly atop stout leather black boots would have along with their flintlock muskets and powder horns denoted them as the infantry men they undoubtedly were, would have once looked resplendent, and had long fallen into disrepair and neglect. Some still showed vestiges of it and tried to keep up appearances but in reality most had been forced to retrieve what clothing they could from their dead comrades who had fallen by the wayside. Most went barefoot, bootless, and felt, not one vestige of pride in their appearance.

It was entirely questionable, whether or not, a new uniform would have transformed this bedraggled motley band into a fit fighting force of men, their captain doubted that it would somehow. It might have instilled in them a sense of pride, he supposed but that is all. They needed knocking into shape, and he had neither the time nor the inclination to do it. Only, he thought, if they were tested in battle, would any vestige of courage, or bravery show itself, or change of heart occur, in their overall surly demeanour.

The two mounted officers, who accompanied them, at least looked the part; they wore uniforms which still marked them out as cavalry officers: hussars, their black boots, red breeches, and short tight fitting green gilded, and braided, jackets with epaulettes and brass buttons, scabbarded sabres hanging by their sides, gave them the appearance of authority, of presence over their men. Although, in truth they were as hungry as their troopers but somehow more vigilant, on constant lookout for Russian stragglers. The Russian rear-guard of Barclay de Tolly’s army of the west and his fierce Cossacks. Every time they came within spitting distance of this army, the Russians strategically retreated further into the Russian heartland, drawing the frustrated, French pursuers after them. As the Russians retreated, they maintained a rigorous scorched earth policy. There was no food to be had for the French anywhere. They dropped like flies with malnutrition and exhaustion in their wake. The Russians had no need to engage the French in mortal combat, the land, and the terrain did their work for them. They had but to watch and wait with only the occasional foray against their agitated enemy to remind them of their presence.

If however, the Russian mighty army, with its two pincer movements ever united: that is the army of the west and the army of the east, catching the French between their mighty crablike claws, then the French would have been crushed utterly. It was not something Napoleon could allow to happen so strove mightily to avoid, using what depleted forces he had had at his disposal. So far his tactics had worked but for how much longer? His army was stretched to its upmost. He was losing and losing badly, as fast as he was losing his men. Logistically, this war was proving to be a nightmare. One that was lost, before it was even begun, so vast was the Russian heartlands.

The Frenchmen’s fine mounts fared no better. Left with only un-ripened green cereal as fodder, which gave them colic and left them bloated and fly blown where they dropped, either by the sides of the road or in the deadly fields to which the harassed officers had driven them. As a last resort to give them some feed, no matter how bad, it was better that, than watch them slowly starve. More often than not, their eyes filled with tears, at what they had been forced to do to their poor devoted beasts. It was that or let them die. What choice had they? Their carcasses in turn marked the Frenchmen’s progress and contributed to the Russians success. It was more by accident, by misfortune if the two combatants met up for a skirmish or two. Rarely did it happen. When it did it was sudden and brutal, no quarter given and none expected.

They had had such an encounter, a few days ago and had lost half their number and it was this group of Russians they now followed but whenever they came within touching, fighting distance, their enemy disappeared as if like wraiths into the early morning fog or the dark descending dusk. They had yet to make contact with anything other than a disposed Russian peasant or two. These poor beggars had less to eat and less to offer than they did, most of their number resided reluctantly within the Tsar’s army and those that didn’t were nothing more than scarecrows themselves, they were not even worth a sword thrust. Certainly not worth stealing from, unless it was their misfortune to have a crust of stale bread secreted about their person. Men had died for less than that.

The Captain, a tall well-proportioned man of some stature, drew his horse to a standstill suddenly, listening intently. Taisez-vous! Be Silent! I hear something! The men around him froze, apart from one poor devil that was so intent upon his foraging amongst the leaves that he hadn’t heard his officer’s command. Within a stride or two the sergeant had captured the man within his burly embrace, clamping a dirty hand across his mouth to prevent him crying out in alarm. Turning him roughly around to face him, his sharp eyes demanded his silence. The officer cocked his dark head once more to one side and they all heard a faint rustling to their left. It was unmistakeable, either a deer or some other wild animal? They could just make out its quiet, gentle footfalls amongst the undergrowth. They looked at each other in obvious delight. If they could catch it, they would all eat well tonight. For once their stomachs would be full of something other than hot, gaseous farts.

The officer gently dismounted and with silent arm movements to the group of men nearest him, motioned them to follow him into the trees towards the noise. Stealthily, creeping ever closer, they strung themselves out in a rough circle and pounced. The officer’s sword thrust barely missed the slight, dark haired girl hidden deep within the bush. Her frightened screams rent the gathering dusk, tightening her grasp on a grubby faced urchin who crouched beside her.

Mon Dieu! The officer exclaimed drawing back in bewilderment. This was not what he had expected at all. Not what he had hoped for, much the same as his men. Disappointment showed on everyone’s face, and some were openly sullen and their anger showed in their tired eyes. The soldiers roughly dragged them from their hiding place, kicking, screaming, and biting all the time, withering within their grasp, like two slippery eels. They shrieked like banshees!

Enough! The officer exclaimed as they were deposited unceremoniously at his feet. Silence! Stop your caterwauling! It hurts my ears! It was obvious they understood not a word he uttered. The Frenchman sighed and spoke more gently to them. We won’t hurt you. Tell us; is there any food to be had within a stone’s throw of here? In truth they would have travelled hundreds of miles just for the chance of something to cram in their mouths. Complete incomprehension showed on their captive’s faces.

In desperation, the officer mimed the action of eating to the eldest girl, whose iridescent, emerald green eyes, looked up at him enquiringly, with not a trace of fear in them, perhaps a hint of mischief, from an olive skinned dirt streaked face, her lank black hair plaited back behind her ears, which gave her an elfin, almost oriental, eastern look to her features, her