encased.
An ordinary miracle.
I tried to give it back, but he pushed me away until I nodded and said I'd hang it on my belt when I left.
I think I had known he wouldn't come. He wouldn't leave the horses. They were the present.
When I got back to the kitchen tent, Patrick was waiting for me with a woman I had never met. She was a vwandiere. Only a handful were left and they were stricdy for the officers. The pair of them were wolfing chicken legs and offered one to me.
'Rest your heart,' said Patrick, seeing my horror, 'these don't belong to Our Lord, our friend here came by them and when I came looking for you, she was already in here doing a bit of cooking.'
'Where did you get them?'
'I fucked for them, the Russians have got plenty and there's still plenty of Russians in Moscow.'
I blushed and mumbled something about the Russians having fled.
She laughed and said the Russians could hide under the snowflakes. Then she said, 'They're all different.'
'What?'
'Snowflakes. Think of that.'
I did think of that and I fell in love with her.
When I said I was leaving that night she asked if she could come with me.
'I can help you.'
I would have taken her with me even if she'd been lame.
'If you're both going,' said Patrick, draining the last of his evil spirit, 'I'll come along too. I don't fancy it here on my own.'
I was taken aback and for a moment consumed with jealousy.
Perhaps Patrick loved her? Perhaps she loved him?
Love. In the middle of a zero winter. What was I thinking?
We packed the rest of her food and a good deal of Bonaparte's.
He trusted me and I had never given him reason not to.
Well, even great men can be surprised.
We took what there was and she returned wrapped in a huge fur, another of her souvenirs of Moscow. As we set off, I slipped into Domino's tent and left him as much of the food as I dared spare and scrawled my name in the ice on the sledge.
Then we were gone.
We walked for a night and a day without stopping. Our legs assumed an ungainly rhythm and we were afraid to stop in case our lungs or our legs buckled under us. We didn't talk, we wrapped our noses and mouths as tighdy as we could and let our eyes poke out like slits. There was no fresh snow. The hard ground rang at our heels.
I remembered a woman with her baby, her heels sparking the cobbles.
'Happy New Year, soldier.'
Why do all happy memories feel like yesterday though years have passed?
We were heading in the direction we had come, using the charred villages as gruesome signposts, but our progress was
slow and we were afraid to stick direcdy to the roads for fear of Russian troops or some of our own army, greedy and desperate. Mutineers, or traitors as they were more usually called, found no leniency and were given no opportunity to make their excuses. We camped where we could find some natural shelter and huddled together for warmth. I wanted to touch her, but her body was covered all over and my hands were gloved.
On the seventh night, coming out of the forest, we found a hut full of primitive muskets, a dump for the Russian troops we supposed, but there was no one. We were weary and took our chance in there, using dregs of gunpowder from the barrels to light a fire. It was the first night we had had enough shelter to take off our boots and Patrick and I were soon stretching our toes at the blaze, risking permanent damage to our feet.
Our companion loosed her laces but kept her boots on, and seeing my surprise at forgoing this unexpected luxury said, 'My father was a boatman. Boatmen do not take off their boots.' We were silent, either out of respect for her customs or sheer exhaustion, but it was she who offered to tell us her story if we chose to listen.
'A fire and a tale,' said Patrick. 'Now all we need is a drop of something hot,' and he fathomed from the bottom of his unfathomable pockets another stoppered jar of evil spirit.
This was her story.
I have always been a gambler. It's a skill that comes
An ordinary miracle.
I tried to give it back, but he pushed me away until I nodded and said I'd hang it on my belt when I left.
I think I had known he wouldn't come. He wouldn't leave the horses. They were the present.
When I got back to the kitchen tent, Patrick was waiting for me with a woman I had never met. She was a vwandiere. Only a handful were left and they were stricdy for the officers. The pair of them were wolfing chicken legs and offered one to me.
'Rest your heart,' said Patrick, seeing my horror, 'these don't belong to Our Lord, our friend here came by them and when I came looking for you, she was already in here doing a bit of cooking.'
'Where did you get them?'
'I fucked for them, the Russians have got plenty and there's still plenty of Russians in Moscow.'
I blushed and mumbled something about the Russians having fled.
She laughed and said the Russians could hide under the snowflakes. Then she said, 'They're all different.'
'What?'
'Snowflakes. Think of that.'
I did think of that and I fell in love with her.
When I said I was leaving that night she asked if she could come with me.
'I can help you.'
I would have taken her with me even if she'd been lame.
'If you're both going,' said Patrick, draining the last of his evil spirit, 'I'll come along too. I don't fancy it here on my own.'
I was taken aback and for a moment consumed with jealousy.
Perhaps Patrick loved her? Perhaps she loved him?
Love. In the middle of a zero winter. What was I thinking?
We packed the rest of her food and a good deal of Bonaparte's.
He trusted me and I had never given him reason not to.
Well, even great men can be surprised.
We took what there was and she returned wrapped in a huge fur, another of her souvenirs of Moscow. As we set off, I slipped into Domino's tent and left him as much of the food as I dared spare and scrawled my name in the ice on the sledge.
Then we were gone.
We walked for a night and a day without stopping. Our legs assumed an ungainly rhythm and we were afraid to stop in case our lungs or our legs buckled under us. We didn't talk, we wrapped our noses and mouths as tighdy as we could and let our eyes poke out like slits. There was no fresh snow. The hard ground rang at our heels.
I remembered a woman with her baby, her heels sparking the cobbles.
'Happy New Year, soldier.'
Why do all happy memories feel like yesterday though years have passed?
We were heading in the direction we had come, using the charred villages as gruesome signposts, but our progress was
slow and we were afraid to stick direcdy to the roads for fear of Russian troops or some of our own army, greedy and desperate. Mutineers, or traitors as they were more usually called, found no leniency and were given no opportunity to make their excuses. We camped where we could find some natural shelter and huddled together for warmth. I wanted to touch her, but her body was covered all over and my hands were gloved.
On the seventh night, coming out of the forest, we found a hut full of primitive muskets, a dump for the Russian troops we supposed, but there was no one. We were weary and took our chance in there, using dregs of gunpowder from the barrels to light a fire. It was the first night we had had enough shelter to take off our boots and Patrick and I were soon stretching our toes at the blaze, risking permanent damage to our feet.
Our companion loosed her laces but kept her boots on, and seeing my surprise at forgoing this unexpected luxury said, 'My father was a boatman. Boatmen do not take off their boots.' We were silent, either out of respect for her customs or sheer exhaustion, but it was she who offered to tell us her story if we chose to listen.
'A fire and a tale,' said Patrick. 'Now all we need is a drop of something hot,' and he fathomed from the bottom of his unfathomable pockets another stoppered jar of evil spirit.
This was her story.
I have always been a gambler. It's a skill that comes
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