The six men were gaunt, hungry, and usually freezing wretches. They’d faced the dreaded Cossacks with their shaggy ponies, and fought through them time and again. These six were hardened beasts, savage men with iron wills pushing their ragged bodies farther than most men knew they could go.

  The wind howled around them as storm clouds churned overhead. The dark clouds threatened a blizzard. Likely, none of the six would survive it. Yet, each plodded through the snow, refusing to give up.

  “Look,” Steele said in his atrocious French, “there’s a forest ahead. That might shelter us from the wind. If we can find dry wood, we can start a fire and endure the night and any storm.”

  A soldier named Jacques cried out, clutching his stomach. He fell to his knees and then kneeled over, his face plowing into the snow.

  The other five halted, staring at Jacques’ unmoving form.

  “Let’s go,” said one. “It’s over for toothless Jacques.”

  “Wait,” Steele said. He painfully knelt beside Jacques, and with a heave, turned him over. Steele removed scarves from the pockmarked face and put an ear near the man’s mouth. There was nothing. Jacques would never breathe again.

  Setting down the ten-pound musket, Steele laboriously unbuttoned the corpse’s greatcoat.

  “Leave him. He’s dead.”

  Steele didn’t have the strength to argue with François. He searched hidden pockets and pulled out an iron crust of bread. He broke it in half and shoved one piece into his mouth. He would let it thaw before he began to chew. Lately, his teeth had all started to loosen in their gums.

  Taking his musket, using it butt down on the frozen ground, Steele climbed laboriously to his feet. He wound the scarves back around his head. Then he stumbled to one of the men, a Polish soldier, his best friend among the remaining four, not counting himself.

  Steele shoved the other crust into Josef’s gloved hands.

  Josef stared at him in shock.

  “The pact,” Steele said harshly, his voice muffled by the scarves.

  Though scarves wound around his face, Josef stared at him blankly.

  “We divide it all,” Steele said. “And we shoot the other if he tries to surrender or quit.”

  Josef nodded and crammed the piece of bread into his mouth, crunching the frozen crust.

  Steele and he had made the pact a week ago. Before that, Josef had dragged a weary Steele from a campfire. Cossacks had struck it fifteen minutes later, slaughtering the rest. Steele had dragged Josef from the side of the road after the other had begged Steele to leave him.

  “I’ll shoot you if you don’t get up,” Steele had shouted in Josef’s face.

  Afterward, Josef realized the power of the threat and they made the pact. They had both sworn to it, determined to make it out of the frozen hell of Russia.

  Now, as the storm clouds gathered overhead, as the temperature began to drop, the five staggered through the snow, heading for the pines in the distance.

  “Think of the fire we’ll make,” Steele said to Josef. “We’ll be warm soon.”

  That was when the neigh of horses alerted them.

  “Cossacks!” the Lieutenant cried. “They’ve found us. Run! Run for the woods!”

  “No!” Steele shouted hoarsely. “Don’t run. March backward. If we flee like fools, we die. If we act like soldiers, we might keep them at bay long enough to make it.”

  Cossacks were like wolves, always rushing the weak and respecting the brave and strong.

  Thus began what would surely be the death march of the five last survivors of what had once been Napoleon’s Grande Armee in Russia.

  -8-

  The small band staggered backward, their muskets aimed at the distant Cossacks. Individuals slipped and fell, rose again, and continued to stalk toward the pine trees as the sun sank, and the smudge in the distance—the Cossack band—continued to follow. Interestingly, the Cossacks did not rush in, did not whoop, or try to pick them off like sharpshooters. The horsemen followed at a distance like human wolves, sensing perhaps that these five were a harder nut than others they had come upon.

  Eventually, the five entered the woods and moved from tree to tree, as night came upon them.

  “Do you think the Cossacks will attack us in the dark?” Josef asked.

  “No,” Steele said.

  They tramped practically blind through the dark forest until they came upon an old fallen trunk, a prize indeed.

  “This is what we need,” Steele said. “We’ll stop here and make camp. Who has the hatchets?”

  The Lieutenant had one. He brushed off snow, straddled the trunk, and began to hack off branches and old bark. The dry substances would likely burn easily. Soon, the Lieutenant was unable to chop due to exhaustion and passed the hatchet to another. That one weakly chopped. Finally, Steele took the hatchet. His strokes were sure and hard. He was as tired as the rest, but there was a furious vitality in John Steele that simply refused to quit. They all recognized the elemental force, respecting it.

  Josef had some of that. The other three were tough, but they were gaunt and nearly starving and bitter with cold. Curiously, they seemed to derive strength from Steele’s vicious tenacity. He was unlike others, driven by an inner fire.

  Eventually, they stacked up enough wood and bark for the night, and Steele ceased chopping.

  He was the lowest ranked among them, but in this, that didn’t matter. He led them through his vitality, through his intense will for survival.

  Carefully, Steele used a small amount of gunpowder and matches to start a fire. He pointed to each and gave the assignments, telling them when they would arise and keep watch and feed the fire.

  Four of them bedded around the blaze and gained a modicum of warmth. They slept in their greatcoats, throwing blankets over themselves that they’d carried in their packs.

  In the middle of the night, Steele felt a hand shake his shoulder. He opened his eyes.

  “It’s your turn,” Josef said.

  Steele forced himself to sit up and rub sleep from his eyes. He studied the fire and how much wood they had left. He stood, picking up his musket. He circled their position to check for any nearby Cossacks. There was none.

  Steele returned to the fire and fed it enough to keep it going, but not so much that it burned too fast. He had done this many times throughout the last few weeks. It had become an art with him.

  Steele sat on the fallen trunk and stared up at the stars. It was a clear night, as the storm clouds had blown away, making it even more bitterly cold. Steele stared at the stars for a long time, wondering what was out there. Why did he have to live on this world? It was such a bitter existence. Fighting, winning at times, but lately everything seemed to have gone against him.

  Steele shook his head.

  If he could leave Russia…if he could reach Germany or France… Maybe he should desert. Maybe it was time to leave Europe altogether. He’d heard stories about the New World. He didn’t plan to go back to Scotland, as there was nothing for him there, but to America.

  If he survived this, he swore to himself—I’ll go to America, and make my life there.

  More time passed. The stars moved across the night sky. Steele slid off the trunk and shook the Lieutenant awake.

  “It’s your watch,” Steele said.

  “I feel sick,” the Lieutenant said.

  “We all feel sick,” Steele said. “Stay awake and feed the fire. If it gets too cold, we’ll freeze to death. Do you understand?”

  “Of course,” the Lieutenant said.

  Steele looked at the man closely. In the firelight, he saw defeat in the Lieutenant’s eyes. He grabbed the officer by the coat’s collar.

  “Listen, you bastard, you stay awake. You don’t quit on us now, do you hear? You keep going until the end. And for you, the end is many years away. Do you understand, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes,” the man said in a tired voice.

  Steele released him. He could feel something off in the officer, but he took his musket, went to his blanket, moving it closer to the fire, laid down and fell almost instantly asleep.

  A few minutes later, or so it seemed, Steele heard a shout. He sat up. Something was off, wrong. For one thing, the tip of the sun poked over the horizon. They shouldn’t have slept so late.

  Steele twisted around because it was so cold. The fire was out, ashes. He looked at the woodpile. There was still wood. Steele scrambled to his feet, enraged.

  “Lieutenant!” he roared, “you bastard!”

  The others opened their eyes and looked up.

  Like a wounded great cat, John Steele jumped to the sleeping Lieutenant. He grabbed fistfuls of worn greatcoat and backhanded the Lieutenant a savage blow across the face.

  “You fell asleep! You let the fire go out!” Steele hit him three more times.

  Then Josef grabbed him from behind. “Stop it! It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Steele turned and glared at Josef. “We could have frozen to death. Look, the sun is already beginning to climb into the sky. We should have left already. Our tracks will lead the Cossacks straight to us. We must leave. We must flee.”

  “I know,” Josef said. “I understand, but you don’t hit a corpse. What’s the point of hitting a corpse?”

  Steele turned and stared at the Frenchman known as the Lieutenant. He couldn’t remember the man’s name anymore. The Lieutenant was icy cold. His eyes were open with the stare of death. The Lieutenant must have fallen asleep in the night and died. He hadn’t put any wood on the fire before he’d given up the ghost.

  Steele stared and felt a savage swirl of emotions. It was over for the Lieutenant. Peace at last, he thought, unless there’s really judgment before God like the priests say. That softened his heart just a little. Steele reached out and closed the Lieutenant’s eyelids.

  Afterward, Steele shook himself and faced the others. “It doesn’t matter. The Lieutenant’s dead. Let’s get going before Cossacks show up. We’re down to four.” He looked at each. “We’re hungry. We’re tired, but go that way,” he pointed, “and we stay free. That way is France. They haven’t caught us yet, and if we refuse to quit…”

  Steele looked at the Lieutenant again. The words died in his throat as a sense of futility swept over him. His shoulders sagged.

  There was a neigh in the distance, somewhere behind in the woods. The sound snapped Steele out of his gloom. He stood and clutched his musket. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “We’re not going to bury him?” Josef said.

  “Hell no,” Steele said. “Let the dead bury the dead. We’re going to live, damn it. We just have to keep going.”

  None of the others spoke, but none of the others disagreed. Thus, as the top edge of the sun poked over the horizon, the four weary stragglers continued their vain effort to escape Russia before they died.

  -9-

  The four exited the forest and continued to tramp through snow that morning. Whenever one became thirsty, he would stuff snow in his mouth and let it melt before he drank.

  They’d learned from hard experience that swallowing the snow right away was too cold, chilling them to the core. It was a laborious way to drink. Often, it was better to find an icicle, snap it off, and suck on it as the water trickled into one’s throat.

  In the afternoon, with the sun hiding behind clouds, the Cossacks charged from behind a near hill. The furry raiders were wild riders, whooping and shouting. They wore furs and looked like wolves on their shaggy ponies. Gunshots rang out.

  The four could see the sparks of the ignitions. None of the bullets reached them, although there were puffs in the snow showing where the bullets hit. The four were too far at the moment. Unfortunately, the Cossacks galloped at them, some with lowered lances as if they were knights of old.

  “All right,” Steele said, “stand your ground, stand your ground.”

  The others listened and grimly turned at bay. They raised their muskets, aiming as the Cossacks galloped closer and closer.

  “Hold your fire, hold your fire,” Steele said.

  The 1777 musket was good for a mere one hundred yards at best. Half that distance was much better.

  In Steele’s opinion, the lead Cossack reached fifty yards from them.

  “Josef!” said Steele.

  Josef fired his musket and immediately began to reload.

  Seconds later, a Cossack yelled. He didn’t tumble from the saddle, but clutched his side.

  “François!” said Steele.

  A burly Frenchman fired his musket, missing completely. He began to reload.

  The Cossacks fired a volley of pistol shots as they charged. None hit, although puffs of snow rose around them.

  “Fire at will!” shouted Steele.

  He pulled the trigger of his Charleville 1777.

  The leader of the Cossacks, the bravest of them, tumbled from the saddle with a bullet hole in his furry hat and forehead.

  Josef now raised his reloaded musket.

  The Cossacks didn’t ride in for the finish but sawed at their reins. The nimble ponies veered away as they galloped away from the four.

  Steele yanked his ramrod from the barrel and raised his musket, ready to fire again.

  “François is dying,” Josef said.

  Steele turned left.

  François lay stretched out on the snow as blood seeped from his greatcoat. One of the wild pistol shots from the Cossacks had hit home. François groaned, coughed his last, and died without a word.

  Steele looked at Josef and Henri. “Let’s go before the Cossacks come back.”

  “It’s just the three of us now,” Henri said.

  “Three is better than one,” Steele said. “Do you wish to enter our pact?”

  Henri shook his head as fear etched across his face.

  “Come,” Steele said. “Let’s go.”

  The Cossacks had ridden behind the hill and were presently out of view.

  The three set out with their muskets reloaded. They trudged through the snow the rest of the afternoon. Then, with a sad cry, Henri fell down face first in the snow.

  Josef knelt and turned the corpse over. “He gave his all.”

  “It wasn’t enough,” Steele said, “you have to give more than your all.”

  Josef frowned, looking up. “How can one give more than one hundred percent? It is mathematically impossible.”

  Steele angrily shook his head. “I don’t care about that. I’ll win through no matter what. Remember, if you surrender, if you tell me to give up, I’ll shoot you. I expect you to do the same to me.”

  “Yes,” Josef said wearily.

  The two continued to trudge until they saw a smudge of a greater forest ahead. They did not hurry because they knew in their state that was useless. But they kept putting one foot ahead of the other. It was hard. Steele’s body ached all over and his feet were throbbing sore. Worse, every breath was so damnably cold, hurting his throat.

  Something caused Steele to look back. He saw Cossacks galloping at them from a distance. Without thinking, he grabbed Josef by the arm of his greatcoat and dragged him along.

  “Run for the forest,” Steele said.

  The two men staggered through the snow, trying to reach the forest before the riders caught up. Their effort was of no avail. The ponies were strong. The Cossacks had fed well these past months. They rapidly gained ground.

  Josef looked back. “It doesn’t matter,” he sobbed. “It’s over. They’re going to catch us.”

  “It does matter,” Steele said. “Run.”

  Despite his words, the Highlander’s eyes were staring. His throat was raw. He actually wanted to succumb. Maybe he should pull out one of his pistols kept warm in his coat. He would say to hell with it and end it now. Then he could ask God why He had let him and the other who had marched in the Grand Armee suffer like this. Steele wanted to know why there was such agony in life.

  “I must stop,” Josef said.

  “No,” Steele said. He didn’t know where the voice inside him came from. It was elemental, maybe filled with berserker rage. The rage wasn’t aimed at God, but at the idea that this might be it. He would die uselessly. He had no children. He had always wanted a wife and children. To get that, he needed to survive. Could he surrender to the Cossacks then? Never!

  They stumbled as they ran and the forest neared. Then the Cossacks surged ahead of them. In moments, the Cossacks drew rein, turning their mounts and aiming flintlock pistols at the two. Some of the pistol barrels were as long as a carbine’s.

  Steele and Josef stopped, their chests heaving.

  One Cossack trotted forward, he with a great fur hat. “Surrender,” he said in better French than Steele spoke.

  Steele had let go of Josef’s coat, although he clutched his musket. He counted eleven Cossacks sitting upon their shaggy ponies, grinning like devils.

  Josef let out a weary sigh. “It’s over, Steele. We’re done for.”

  Steele shook his head.

  “I want to live,” Josef cried. “I don’t want to die.”

  Steele stared at Josef like one uncomprehending the words. Steele watched as Josef hurled his musket to the snow and staggered toward the Cossacks.

  Three of them slid off their ponies. Two had ropes in their hands.

  “We will take you to the prisoner camp,” said the Cossack who could speak French. “Come. You must both surrender.”

  At the words, Steele felt something surge in his heart, something bitter, wild, and savage. He was so hungry and near the end of his life, but madness boiled in his brain. It was something different from all those around him. Where the difference came from—it was something philosophers could argue. He didn’t know.

  Steele knew which the bravest Cossack was. It was the one speaking French, the one smiling and beckoning.

  Josef staggered to him.

  As Josef staggered to the Cossack, Steele raised his musket. He didn’t yell or give any warning. He simply aimed and fired.

  Josef spun around with accusing eyes. Steele had shot him in the heart from the back. Josef blinked and fell down dead.

  The Cossacks stared at Steele in shock.

  While they stared, Steele did not unbutton his coat and reach for his pistols. He reloaded his musket. A skilled soldier could fire three rounds per minute. After all these years, Steele could load the 1777 with his eyes closed. He poured the powder, thrust in the patch and ball, ramming it home with the ramrod. Then he filled the pan, and he cocked the flint in the bitter cold air.