Friedland, East Prussia, 14 June 1807
“We shouldn’t be here,” Alexei said.
Vassili gave no reply. He stared out at the dust rising from the west, watching carefully as it continued to swell and thicken. Both men stood clutching their helmets on the eastern tip of Sortlack forest, from where they had first sighted the dust a little over an hour ago. Since then it had turned from an earthy mist to a dense wall of brown-grey cloud. The trees and hills along the western horizon screened its source from view, but Vassili knew what was coming.
Alexei shook his head. “Come on. It’s too dangerous.”
“Volkov will be back soon. We’re staying put until then,” Vassili replied, frowning as he ran his fingers through his curly black hair, trying to rake out the sweat. It was nearly evening but the days of the Prussian summer were long and hot, and the sun wouldn’t set for some hours yet. Every inch of Vassili’s pristine white uniform – the uniform of his elite Russian Guard Cavalry squadron – seemed to stick to his skin as he sweltered beneath.
“Can Bennigsen not see this?” Alexei asked.
“Bennigsen sees what Bennigsen wants to see,” Vassili replied as he glanced at Alexei, whose weathered face was taut as he squinted at the horizon, accentuating the scars and creases carved into his skin. Loose golden hair spilled from his head – the only thing left unchanged from when they were childhood friends – while thick, unruly sideburns curled all the way down his cheeks. At 31, he was the same age as Vassili, but he looked older than his years.
Vassili sighed and faced forward. From the raised ground at the edge of the forest, he could see for miles around. Immediately in front, there was a vast plain of fields and pastures, where a few battalions of Russian musketeers were deployed in thin lines. At the western edge, there was a cluster of hills and trees, behind which the dust continued to swell. To the north, there was a mill-stream running from east to west, beyond which Vassili could see the bulk of the Russian army marching and skirmishing amongst the trees and villages that stretched all the way to the northern horizon. To the east, the River Alle snaked northwards, intersecting with the mill-stream at Friedland, a small Prussian town that served as the only crossing for both the mill-stream and the river. Finally, behind Vassili, there was the forest of Sortlack, which contained a skeleton force of Russian jager light infantry.
At that moment, a white speck called Vassili’s eye over towards Friedland. He lifted his spyglass. “There,” he said. “It’s Volkov. He’s heading back.”
Lieutenant Volkov galloped over the narrow peninsula that stretched out from Friedland, running between the mill-stream and a sharp bend in the Alle. Once he emerged onto the central plain, he steered left towards Sortlack forest. Within a few moments, Vassili could hear his hooves beating against the baked earth and see the detail of his young face coming into focus beneath his black, brass-plated helmet.
“What news?” Vassili called out as he rode up beside them.
“He says it’s just a haze, sir.”
“A haze?” Alexei half-shouted. “Is Bennigsen blind? Only an army can kick up that much dust.”
“Will he not send reinforcements?” Vassili asked.
“He refused. He’s only interested in the area north of the stream,” Volkov replied hurriedly.
Vassili shook his head. “They’re making him commit in the wrong place.”
“He’s committed everything now, sir. He’s moved the whole army across the Alle.”
Vassili shook his head in disbelief. They weren’t even supposed to be fighting a battle here. General Bennigsen had been lured over the river earlier this morning by a handful of French units sighted in the woods and villages north-west of Friedland. But the enemy had proved elusive and cunning, feinting attacks and then melting away before the Russians could hit back. As morning turned to afternoon, the stubborn fool had sent more and more men across the Alle to stamp them out, concentrating the vast majority of his forces north of the mill-stream and sending only a skeleton force to guard his left flank where the real threat had now emerged.
“I’m sorry, Prince Vassili,” Volkov said. “I tried to tell him. He wouldn’t–”
Vassili waved his hand. “It’s not your fault. Go and wait with the others,” he said, pointing back through the tree line where the rest of his squadron – 93 men in all – stood poised by their horses.
“Bennigsen’s a damned fool,” Alexei said once Volkov was out of earshot. “By the time he realises what’s happening, it’ll be too late.”
Vassili knew he was right. The mill-stream meant the only option for reinforcements from the north would be via Friedland, and that would take too long if the French had already started their assault.
“We need to get out of here,” Alexei said, looking east towards the small gap between Sortlack forest and the river.
“No, this is the best place to be,” Vassili said.
“What do you mean? If we can make it through there, we can ford the river further to the south,” Alexei replied.
Vassili offered no response. Instead he gripped his spyglass tight in his hands. It had been a gift from his father. The smooth brass cylinder held firm as he squeezed it between his fingers. It was strong, immovable.
“Vassili?”
Vassili turned to reply, but, at that moment, something else seemed to divert Alexei’s gaze. “Over there! What’s that?” he asked, looking towards the western horizon
“What?” Vassili replied, snapping his head in the same direction.
“You see, in that tree line,” Alexei said, pointing over to it.
Vassili looked across the plain. At the far tree line, he could see a tiny dot, white with a sliver of blue. He snapped his spyglass back up to his eye. And then his hands clenched.
“What is it?” Alexei asked.
Vassili stayed silent as his eyes absorbed the image. The cocked hat, the dark navy uniform of the French Imperial Guard, the fine Arabian horse shining white in the sun.
“Vassili?”
Vassili brought the spyglass down and turned to Alexei. “Napoleon,” he said. “It’s Napoleon.” As he said the words, he felt a panic striking like a bolt through his body. It could only mean one thing.
“My God,” Alexei said, his expression turned to horror. Both men knew that if Napoleon was here, so was the whole French army. An army 80,000 strong.
Vassili brought the spyglass back up, but all he saw was Napoleon riding back through the treeline. Several tense minutes passed as the two Russians waiting for him to make another appearance, but he didn’t return.
“Vassili, it’s time to go,” Alexei said finally.
But before Vassili could answer, a sharp cracking sound rang out from the western horizon, sending a loud echo soaring over the landscape. Both men snapped their heads around. Another crack followed, then another. And then more in quick succession. It was the French artillery giving a signal. It had started.
As the guns fell silent, a faint noise stirred from inside Sortlack forest, like the gentle crackle of a log fire. Seconds later, the crackling erupted into a hail of sharp snaps that seemed to envelop the whole forest. It was the sound of a thousand muskets all firing at once. Broken Russian shouts came sailing through the leaves. The jagers were under attack.
“My God,” Alexei said. “They’re coming through the forest.”
But Vassili’s eyes had already shot over to the western horizon where they had sighted Napoleon. The woods there were bleeding blue and white. He watched as column after column of enemy infantry burst from the trees, heading straight for the Russian musketeers guarding the plain, whose rich green uniforms sprouted up through the yellow crops that stood waist-high all around them.
The Russian lines were just three men deep but hundreds of yards wide, meaning every man could fire at once. But what the narrow, densely packed French columns lacked in firepower, they made up for in speed and terror. Like spears hurtling towards their targets, each column descended upon just one small part of the Russian line, causing panic amongst the men who would have to face them. The panic quickly spread as everyone else feared what would happen if the line was broken. Vassili looked on in dismay as line after line indeed panicked and then fired too early, sending their shots well short of the French formations bearing down on them.
As the enemy charged, more loud cracks boomed out across the hills and rippled through the trees. Puffs of smoke appeared to the right of the columns where the French artillery had taken up a firing position along the treeline. Vassili watched through his spyglass as a cannonball punched into the Russian ranks and sent half a dozen men flying back in a cloud of dirt and blood. More cannonballs followed, shredding the Russian lines like a scythe slashing through grass.
“Our men will never hold,” Alexei cried as he watched in horror.
He was right. With the columns charging down at them and artillery fire tearing through their ranks, some of the Russians were already starting to run. Soon whole lines began to turn and flee. Hundreds and then thousands of musketeers fled across the plain back towards Friedland, followed by hundreds of jagers who were escaping from the forest. Bennigsen’s left flank was collapsing.
“We’ll be right in the middle of it here,” Alexei said, looking out at the fleeing Russians.
Vassili pressed his lips together, giving no response. He twisted his neck around to look at his squadron still waiting amongst the trees. Volkov had moved forward to the treeline in anticipation of receiving orders. “Tell the men to saddle up,” Vassili shouted at him. “And bring our horses.”
“Very good, sir,” Volkov replied, spinning around and dashing back through the trees.
As the squadron moved up, Vassili looked at the faces of his men, many of whom he had known for years. They would follow him, he knew it. Together with Alexei and Volkov, he mounted his horse. As he settled into the hard saddle, he gripped the handle of his pallasch, the long, straight sabre carried by every cuirassier.
“The battle’s over,” Alexei said as muskets snapped close by in the forest.
“Hold on,” Vassili said as he saw something unexpected across the plain. The French gunners had limbered their artillery and were racing towards Friedland. Through his spyglass Vassili counted 30 guns in all, divided into two batteries. As one battery charged forward, the other unlimbered and provided cover fire, hurling cannonballs at the fleeing Russians and into the reserves who guarded the Friedland peninsula. At once Vassili saw the danger. If the French artillery broke through to Friedland, the Russians north of the mill-stream would lose their only way of crossing back over the Alle.
“We have to get out of here,” Alexei said, pointing again to the small gap between Sortlack forest and the Alle.
Vassili kept his eyes on the charging French guns and the masses of men pouring into Friedland. He breathed long, deep breaths and closed his eyes, trying to control the fear rippling through his body.
“Vassili, come on!” Alexei shouted.
Vassili opened his eyes. He turned to Alexei. “No, we can intercept the artillery from here. We can slow them down, give the army time to retreat.”
“You can’t be serious,” Alexei said.
“We’ll hit them from the side,” Vassili said hurriedly, pointing to the exposed flank of the charging artillery.
“Damn you, no,” Alexei replied, speaking loudly enough that some of the men nearby could hear. “They’re over a mile away. They’ll see us coming.”
“If we do nothing they’ll all die,” Vassili said, looking at the thousands of Russians fleeing across the plain, and the thousands more deployed north of the mill-stream.
“Don’t pretend you’re doing it for them,” Alexei snapped.
Vassili glared back at him, then straightened his back and lifted his chest. “Those are my orders,” he said.
“Your orders?” Alexei replied. “Is that how you speak to me now?”
“If I must,” Vassili said.
“Listen to me,” Alexei replied. “I’m telling you, we have to–”
Vassili held his hand up. “Captain Petrushkin,” he said loudly, addressing Alexei by his military title for the first time in years. “I order you to prepare the men to charge.”
Alexei looked aghast. “If we are friends, do not do this,” he whispered fiercely.
Vassili was unmoved. “Prepare the men to charge,” he repeated. “If you won’t do it, I’ll find someone who will.”
Vassili started turning to Volkov, but, as he did, Alexei grabbed his arm. “Wait,” he said, his face red with fury. “Damn you,” he said. And with that, he swivelled his horse around and started barking orders in preparation to charge. Alexei would never let the squadron go into battle without him.
As they formed up, stray shots whistled between the trees. The French had almost broken through Sortlack forest. Vassili knew they had to go now. He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. Through the darkness, he glimpsed the faces of his ancestors staring down from the walls of his childhood home. Now was his moment. Now, or it would never come.