Margont jumped to his feet. There were still a few Frenchmen frantically jabbing away with their bayonets or whirling their muskets so as to knock out two Russians at a time. But most were fleeing, swept away by the tidal wave of Russians. Arms were raised, begging for mercy; men on the ground were being run through with bayonets … Margont broke into a run to get back to his own men. He went past a captain trying to get up at the same time as training a pistol. This officer shot a grenadier and, in reprisal, four Russians fired at him at point-blank range. The chaos was indescribable. A Russian was running in front of Margont but the captain refused to strike an enemy in the back, as much out of pity as out of a sense of honour, but also because he was himself terrified of feeling a searing pain, of falling and turning round to see a grenadier above him, wielding a bloodstained bayonet. Margont pushed the Russian forward with all the strength he could muster and the man fell sprawling to the ground.
Margont turned round. A horde of Russians were at their heels. He saw to his horror that a Croatian infantryman was rushing at him and getting ready to fire. It was indeed he, Margont, who was being aimed at and, what is more, by someone from his own side! He thought, Already … The weapon went off and Margont could no longer hear the yelling and the crackle of gunfire. The Croat overtook him at top speed, brushing past him without taking any more notice of him than if he had been a fallen tree. Margont could feel no pain. The bullet had missed him. He could still see the expression of terror on the soldier’s face. He said to himself that the man would have trampled over his own mother without noticing her if she had had the misfortune to be in his way.
The French were hurriedly withdrawing to the wood they had gone through in triumph a few moments earlier. Three Russian foot chasseurs suddenly emerged from a tangle of bushes. They levelled their muskets, calmly took aim at the routed Frenchmen and killed one apiece. Two more appeared further on and claimed two more victims. Then another, but he missed his target. They had been hiding during the Russian defeat and were now taking advantage of the reversal of the situation. Each time a chasseur showed himself, a terrible lottery began. The fleeing soldiers continued to run, repeating inwardly: ‘Not me, not me.’ The shot was fired, a man collapsed and the others breathed a sigh of relief.
In this odious little game, Margont’s officer’s epaulettes increased tenfold his chance of being picked. Margont trusted himself to his lucky star but, by the look of it, that star was not shining as much as his golden epaulettes because a chasseur hidden behind a tree stump suddenly stood up and took aim at him. Margont risked his all and rushed towards the soldier, yelling as he did so. The Russian was taken aback. He took longer than planned to aim and this delay annoyed him. Just at the moment when he was at last going to fire, Margont leapt to one side, then unexpectedly changed direction once more, while continuing to run towards the Russian, shouting and brandishing his sword. Margont was near, very near; the chasseur had him in his line of sight. Margont made as if to jump to the side once more. The Russian anticipated this change of direction, which never happened, and fired too much to the left. Suddenly, he threw his weapon to the ground and fled.
Margont stopped to get his breath back. He turned round towards his pursuers. The Russians were progressing, pointing their bayonets in front of them. He noticed a Russian captain intrepidly leading his company on. The officer had lost his shako. He was running, brandishing his sabre in his outstretched arm. Margont did not want him to be killed. Here was someone of the same rank, the same age and the same enthusiasm that had driven him in his early battles, before Eylau and Spain. It was like seeing his own image reflected in a Russian mirror. The grenadier must have been hit by a bullet since he crumpled on to his side. Margont felt a tug on his sleeve.
‘Got to get out of here, Captain. Things are going badly,’ someone declared in a tense voice.
‘Leave him. He’s already dead,’ another called out.
The soldier let go of his sleeve. The Russian officer straightened up by leaning on his elbows. Margont started to retreat again. He noticed Colonel Delarse at the edge of the wood and hurried towards him. Delarse was furious.
‘Those wretched Russians. They’re like swings: the further you push them away the faster they come back at you. Get your breath back, Captain Margont. You’re more asthmatic than I am.’
‘Colonel, where’s General Delzons? Where’s the Roussel Brigade? And the Sivray and Alméras Brigades?’
‘The whole handsome lot are on their way, Captain Margont.’
The reply was only for form’s sake because it was quite obvious that the colonel had no idea of what was happening.
Margont turned round and gazed at the French artillery at the other end of the plain. He peered at the groups of troopers and the comings and goings of the messengers. Somewhere over there was Prince Eugène and his general staff. Margont knew that his chances of survival depended on decisions being made there. Prince Eugène seemed as remote a figure as God and, at this moment, more powerful than the Almighty Himself. The Russians were still following on the heels of the Huard Brigade. Margont told himself that he had to keep on running, running to the other end of the plain, to the French artillery. That was where his own side was: batteries, fresh troops eager to fight it out, Eugène, Murat … Then he noticed Russian hussars galloping across the plain. The French were caught between a rock and a hard place.
Colonel Delarse urged his horse into a trot. He looped back and met up with Margont again after a brief but unsuccessful attempt to rally the fleeing band of soldiers.
‘Let’s go straight through them,’ he exclaimed, pointing at the troopers with his sabre.
It was at that moment that the hussars charged. The French infantrymen were too disorganised to form square, a formation that would have provided effective protection against cavalry. They immediately paid the price: the cavalrymen wove in and out of the scattered groups, encircled some and began slashing and hacking on all sides. Some hussars went at it furiously, as if intent on massacring the brigade single-handedly. Others were content merely to gallop towards a handful of men and fire pistol shots before tugging the reins and pulling away. This tactic bore fruit: groups harried in this way were slowed down considerably. The Russian infantry eventually caught up with them and slaughtered them. Margont heard the sound of a horse galloping behind him. His neighbour to the left collapsed whilst a hussar rode past with a blood-soaked sabre in his hand. Another hussar suddenly appeared from behind him. He stood up in his stirrups until he was almost fully erect, holding his sabre aloft. Margont brandished his sword above his head and managed to deflect the blow. The horse continued running and curtailed the engagement, and the two men escaped with only sore wrists. Another cavalryman, coming in from the right, pointed his sabre towards Margont and spurred his horse into a gallop. Margont faced up to him and stared at the blade he was to ward off. The hussar veered away at the last moment and gave up on him.
Margont turned round and saw the frightening spectacle of the green infantry arriving at the double, bristling with bayonets and now close to him. He raced once more towards his own lines. In turn a hussar spurred his horse on towards Margont. If Margont did not stop to face up to him, the cavalryman would kill him. And if he did stop, his opponent would ride off, like the previous one, leaving him in the hands of the infantry. Margont threw his sword to the ground like a panic-stricken deserter. This gesture convinced the hussar that he was being handed an easy victory and he did not turn his horse away. But at the last minute, Margont spun round. The Russian was standing up in his stirrups, flourishing his sabre. Margont leapt at him and clung on to his pelisse. As he leant to the side to deliver his blow, the hussar lost his balance and the two men fell. Margont immediately picked himself up and ran towards the horse as the hussar recovered from his concussion but not from his surprise. Margont mounted the animal and spurred it into a gallop, roaring with laughter.