laughed.
'Go on, Pierre,' said Louis. 'Hit us with some more.'
Pierre rolled out a few sentences in a passable accent. They were clearly intended to catch out any honest Russian who understood them.
'Your wife is a whore, and last night she screwed my dog' was the first, followed by 'Tsar Aleksandr likes to suck General Kutuzov's cock.' Finally, he recounted an often told but utterly false story concerning the death of Tsarina Yekaterina. While I might have fallen for the trickery of his surprise 'good luck', it was easy enough for Vadim and me now to pretend not to understand a word he said. For many senior officers of the generation before ours, little pretence would have been necessary. For a century, French had been the language of the cultivated Russian. Russian was the language of the serf. For most nations, the spies are chosen from amongst men who are fluent in a foreign tongue – men like Pierre. In Russia, spies were men such as Vadim, Dmitry, Maks and myself who, unusually, could communicate with our own populace. Only now, thanks largely to the common enemy that all Russians saw in Bonaparte, were things changing.
'And what was all that about, Pierre?' asked Louis. Pierre translated and we all laughed, particularly about Yekaterina and the horse.
We said goodbye once more and made our way out of the camp, not convinced that they trusted us, but resisting the urge to break into a run. We were almost beyond sight of the group around the fire when we saw ahead of us three French officers about to enter the camp. I readied myself to nonchalantly salute as we passed, but as they came closer, their three faces became recognizable.
It was Iuda, Foma and Matfei.
'Aleksei Ivanovich! Vadim Fyodorovich! What might you be doing here?' asked Iuda. 'Surely you haven't gone over to the other side?' He had a degree of good-humoured sarcasm that I was surprised to hear from any of the Oprichniki.
'Just a little espionage,' explained Vadim. 'And you?'
Iuda smiled. 'We come not to spy, but to kill.' Matfei and Foma shuffled their feet, impatient that this needless conversation was delaying the action. 'It's a good job we didn't come sooner,' continued Iuda. 'You make such convincing Frenchmen.'
I was keen to leave, but I felt we owed Iuda some of the benefit of our research. 'There's over a hundred men back there,' I told him. 'You don't stand a chance.' Even as I spoke, I remembered what we had witnessed Pyetr, Ioann and Varfolomei achieve earlier that night, and I doubted my own words.
Iuda patted my shoulder condescendingly. 'Thanks for your concern, Aleksei. See you soon.'
Then they were gone, vanishing into the darkness of the night to become shadows illuminated only by the campfires, mingling amicably amongst the men that they were soon to turn on. Vadim and I walked briskly away, each of us secretly hoping to be out of earshot before the Oprichniki began their work.
Back in Goryachkino, we changed into our regular clothes. Vadim's horse was still tied up where he had left it. He mounted and set off ahead of me towards our own encampments to the east of Borodino. I continued on foot. The rain poured down on me, driven even harder by the gusting wind, and the road became muddy under my feet. I envied Vadim his quick journey on horseback, but I pressed on.
Dawn broke with no sound of birdsong. The sound of those birds that even dared to speak was smothered by the sound of twelve hundred guns opening fire as the battle began to the south. It was a beautiful sound, at least to a soldier, which was what I still liked to regard myself as. There is a simplicity to a battle that appeals to every soldier, be he the most cerebral officer or the basest ryadovoy . It is a suspension of morality that allows a man to act without conscience, safe in the knowledge that it is his duty to destroy the enemy. The politics, for that short duration, are the business of others. Between battles, some men suppress their doubts with
'Go on, Pierre,' said Louis. 'Hit us with some more.'
Pierre rolled out a few sentences in a passable accent. They were clearly intended to catch out any honest Russian who understood them.
'Your wife is a whore, and last night she screwed my dog' was the first, followed by 'Tsar Aleksandr likes to suck General Kutuzov's cock.' Finally, he recounted an often told but utterly false story concerning the death of Tsarina Yekaterina. While I might have fallen for the trickery of his surprise 'good luck', it was easy enough for Vadim and me now to pretend not to understand a word he said. For many senior officers of the generation before ours, little pretence would have been necessary. For a century, French had been the language of the cultivated Russian. Russian was the language of the serf. For most nations, the spies are chosen from amongst men who are fluent in a foreign tongue – men like Pierre. In Russia, spies were men such as Vadim, Dmitry, Maks and myself who, unusually, could communicate with our own populace. Only now, thanks largely to the common enemy that all Russians saw in Bonaparte, were things changing.
'And what was all that about, Pierre?' asked Louis. Pierre translated and we all laughed, particularly about Yekaterina and the horse.
We said goodbye once more and made our way out of the camp, not convinced that they trusted us, but resisting the urge to break into a run. We were almost beyond sight of the group around the fire when we saw ahead of us three French officers about to enter the camp. I readied myself to nonchalantly salute as we passed, but as they came closer, their three faces became recognizable.
It was Iuda, Foma and Matfei.
'Aleksei Ivanovich! Vadim Fyodorovich! What might you be doing here?' asked Iuda. 'Surely you haven't gone over to the other side?' He had a degree of good-humoured sarcasm that I was surprised to hear from any of the Oprichniki.
'Just a little espionage,' explained Vadim. 'And you?'
Iuda smiled. 'We come not to spy, but to kill.' Matfei and Foma shuffled their feet, impatient that this needless conversation was delaying the action. 'It's a good job we didn't come sooner,' continued Iuda. 'You make such convincing Frenchmen.'
I was keen to leave, but I felt we owed Iuda some of the benefit of our research. 'There's over a hundred men back there,' I told him. 'You don't stand a chance.' Even as I spoke, I remembered what we had witnessed Pyetr, Ioann and Varfolomei achieve earlier that night, and I doubted my own words.
Iuda patted my shoulder condescendingly. 'Thanks for your concern, Aleksei. See you soon.'
Then they were gone, vanishing into the darkness of the night to become shadows illuminated only by the campfires, mingling amicably amongst the men that they were soon to turn on. Vadim and I walked briskly away, each of us secretly hoping to be out of earshot before the Oprichniki began their work.
Back in Goryachkino, we changed into our regular clothes. Vadim's horse was still tied up where he had left it. He mounted and set off ahead of me towards our own encampments to the east of Borodino. I continued on foot. The rain poured down on me, driven even harder by the gusting wind, and the road became muddy under my feet. I envied Vadim his quick journey on horseback, but I pressed on.
Dawn broke with no sound of birdsong. The sound of those birds that even dared to speak was smothered by the sound of twelve hundred guns opening fire as the battle began to the south. It was a beautiful sound, at least to a soldier, which was what I still liked to regard myself as. There is a simplicity to a battle that appeals to every soldier, be he the most cerebral officer or the basest ryadovoy . It is a suspension of morality that allows a man to act without conscience, safe in the knowledge that it is his duty to destroy the enemy. The politics, for that short duration, are the business of others. Between battles, some men suppress their doubts with
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