Musket for a King

by Todd Shryock

  “I will find a job, perhaps in another city. I have a cousin that works the river barges moving freight up and down the rivers. Perhaps I will seek him out.”

  “How will you get home?” I ask.

  “The same way I got here,” he says. “Walk.”

  “But there are so many soldiers and horsemen. Someone is bound to catch up with you and want to know why you are not with your unit.”

  “I will take the road less traveled. I will steal some peasant clothes. I don’t know how I will do it, but I will.”

  I knew his odds were long, but at least he would be issuing his own orders.

  “You should come with me,” he said.

  The request sucked the air from my lungs, and I had to concentrate to keep from falling down. “What?” I managed to gasp.

  “You should come with me. You were a hunter -- you could help me work through the woods and avoid the gendarmes.”

  For all the dreaming I had done of being someplace other than in the army, it never occurred to me as a possibility to actually leave -- to desert -- on my own.

  “Well?” he asked, impatiently.

  “When are you leaving?” I countered, buying time as my mind processed the possibility.

  “Tonight. Now.”

  I started to speak, but someone came up behind us, the leaves rustling under the boots.

  “You two, what are you doing?” asked an officer, accompanied by another man whose rank I could not see. “Who are you?”

  Niklas reacted quickly and confidently. “Sergeant Weber and Corporal Muller, assigned to picket duty here, sir.”

  “Very well, I didn’t know anyone else was setting pickets, but you’ll do. I want you to monitor the line to the right and left for about fifty yards on either side of this spot. The enemy pickets are close by, so stay sharp.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The officer and his escort disappeared back into the darkness from whence they came.

  “I’m leaving now, Henri. Will you come with me?”

  I looked in the direction of where the officer disappeared. If we were caught, we would most likely be shot. If the Austrians caught us, it would be a prisoner of war camp where few came out. If the peasants caught us, our throats would be slit and our bodies dumped onto a desolate hillside. And even if I made it home, what then? My lord would not take me back with the war on; he would know I was a deserter and turn me in for the reward. I knew no other life and had been few places in my life.

  “I have no place to go,” I lamented. “I can run, but no place to run to.”

  “Then run with me. Run with me home and away from this madness. Maybe my cousin can use some extra help on the barges.”

  I looked back toward the field where a few intrepid soldiers had started some fires. In the distance, a nervous sentry fired his musket at a shadow. The thought of leaving made me sick and excited at the same time.

  “Do you even know the way?”

  Niklas chuckled and pointed into the darkness. “That way.”

  I pictured myself being lined up and shot for desertion. When you imagine yourself the good soldier, it becomes an odd exercise to see yourself as a deserter. Should I stay and soldier on, alone, or head into the darkness?

  “Henri?” he asked impatiently. “The camp is still in confusion. If I’m leaving, I have to go now.”

  I didn’t know what to do, but my mouth blurted out, “I’m going with you.”

  He slapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  I followed him through the woods as he picked his way back near the camp -- far enough away from the pickets to not raise the alarm but not too close to camp where we might be recognized. Once we were farther away from our battalion, we moved through the crowded fields of men until he found the road and stayed near it. In the darkness, everyone was just a silhouette, and there were so many men and horses still moving about, no one was suspicious. There were also many men separated from their units calling out in French, German and Polish, looking for their parent units, adding to the confusion.

  As we approached the limits of the massive encampment, we moved farther away from the road, picking our way through fields and woods until the sounds of the army faded into the night, leaving only the chirring of insects and a damp chill about us.

  “If anyone finds us, let me do the talking,” Niklas said as we climbed over a rock wall separating one field from the next. “We got separated from our unit during the battle and are looking for them in the darkness.”

  “Will they buy it?”

  “Depends on who ‘they’ are,” he said. “An average officer will probably get us turned around and pointed in the right direction. A gendarme will have us transported back to the army to make sure.”

  The soft field gave way under each step, leaving a trail of deep footprints in our wake. “How far are we going tonight?” I asked.

  “We march until first light, then rest,” he said, pausing to look around, but the night was so dark now it was difficult to see very far. “We need to get as far away from the army and its patrols as possible.”

  ***

  We plodded along close to the road, quickly moving to cover any time we heard a noise, but other than some deer, nothing bothered us.

  As the sky began to lighten, Niklas called a halt, navigating his way well off the road until we found cover under a cluster of trees bordering a broad field. Our little haven was on a slight rise, giving us excellent views in all directions.

  I cast my pack and musket aside, taking a quick inventory of what I had in my forage bag before settling against a broad oak with leafy, outstretched limbs that reached out in every direction.

  “How are you on food and water?” I asked.

  Niklas frowned. “I have enough to get by for a few days, and there’s plenty of water around in the streams and rivers. What about you?”

  “Some bits of stale black bread, dried peas and a bit of flour.”

  He nodded in approval. “Good enough for now. I have a few coins I can use to buy us more from any friendly locals, and I have a few items I can use in trade.”

  “Assuming they don’t slit your throat first.”

  He shrugged. “Let them. It’s a long walk home.”

  We had both become very fatalistic over the last few weeks, but when death is the only constant, you expect to see it come for you sooner rather than later.

  ***

  For three days, we moved mainly at night if the road was clear enough to guide us, otherwise we limited our movements to early morning and late in the day, resting in cover for the remaining daylight hours. We saw only the local farmers moving about their fields, but the farms were becoming fewer in number as we moved further away from our army. Only a single hussar riding at a good clip was seen, and we seemed to be off the main lines of communication, which made our path easier.

  But wooded hills lay ahead, and there was no sign of cultivation or settlements, so we knew we would have to risk dealing with the local peasants.

  We stopped within shouting distance of a small farmhouse surrounded by goat pens and small vegetable gardens. Niklas looked at me, wondering what I thought.

  “We’re out of food,” I said, checking my musket. “Either they sell us some or we take some.”

  Niklas nodded. His eyes had large bags under them and there were wrinkles near the corner of his eyes. He looked ten years older than he was. “Halloooo!” he shouted.

  There’s a long pause before the door cracks open. “What do you want?” a man calls back.

  “We want to buy some food.”

  “Don’t have any to sell.” We can’t see the man, just the crack in the doorway. For all I know, he could be pointing a gun at us.

  “I think you do,” Niklas counters, shifting his musket from the crook of his arm to across his chest. “We have money and items for trade.”

  A long pause ensues and I think I hear voices on the other side of the door. Finally, the door opens further
. “Okay, but not too much.”

  “Yes,” Niklas agrees, “not too much.”

  The door opens and the farmer, a mostly bald man in his fifties wearing dirty pants and a red shirt that’s threadbare on the elbows, steps out. He eyes us, his gaze lingering on our muskets, then nods his head to direct us to approach. “What do you have?” he asks suspiciously.

  “I think that’s our question to you,” Niklas said, his voice taking a hard edge to let the farmer know he’s not putting up with any nonsense.

  The farmer looks at Niklas’ musket again and licks his lips. “I have goat cheese, goat milk, carrots and flour -- for the right price.”

  “Keep the milk. How much of the other three do you have?”

  The farmer pauses, glances at me with his shifty eyes, then grits his teeth. “Half wheel of cheese -- let’s start there. How much do you have?”

  Niklas waits just long enough to answer to make the man uncomfortable. “What’s your price.”

  The farmer does a poor job hiding his sneer. “Coins or trade?”

  “Francs.”

  The man scowls. “No use for those. What else?”

  Niklas gives me a sideways glance. I can tell his patience is up.

  “A gold watch.”

  The farmer raises an eyebrow.

  “A good one. Bring a wheel of cheese, two bunches of carrots and a bag of flour and it’s yours.”

  The man’s chin rises slightly, exposing his stubble. “I would need to see the watch first.”

  I look past the man and see the door opening ever so slightly. I move my eyes back to the farmer, using my peripheral vision to watch the door.

  “Let’s see the food and I’ll show you the watch -- and the francs.”

  He takes a deep breath, looks at me, then slowly raises his hand to scratch his head more slowly than most would.

  I relax the grip on my shouldered musket, letting it slide down until I feel the trigger guard on my finger. This isn’t going to end well.

  The man keeps scratching his head and turns his head toward the door. The tip of a musket slides out a little too far.

  I swing my musket down, grasping the barrel with my left hand as my finger finds the trigger, just as the farmer lunges at me and away from Niklas. The man’s chest hits the end of the barrel as my gun sparks.

  The ball blows clean through his back, leaving a grapefruit-sized hole in his torso and sends him tumbling.

  At the same time, the musket from the door fires and Niklas’ body jerks and he drops to one knee.

  I shrug off the falling farmer and rush the door. My bayonet isn’t fixed, but the anger in me is so hot that it is of little consequence.

  Knocking the door aside with my shoulder, I bowl into a man on the other side and reverse my musket in a broad swing with the butt leading the way, the barrel warm in my hands. It strikes the man in the jaw with a sickening crack and a yowl of pain.

  Stunned, he drops to his knees, his eyes glassy.

  I let the musket barrel slip through my fingers until I’m holding the end of the barrel in both hands. Yelling with the fury of an animal, I swing the musket with all the strength I have and cave in half the man’s head, spattering blood across the wooden planks of the floor.

  Spinning around, I look for others, but the small farm house is empty.

  Looking back through the open door, I see Niklas still on his knees, his hands over a dark spot on his coat, his fingers sticky red.

  I grab him just before he falls over, guiding him gently to the ground.

  “I suppose I had that coming,” he rasps, his breathing labored.

  I look at his hands, move them aside and pull his coat away so I can see the severity. The shot entered his right lung, and there is no exit wound. The blood bubbles on his lips tell me all I need to know. I carefully lower him to the ground.

  “It’s bad,” he says, his voice growing thin. “No exit wound. I’m filling up inside with blood.”

  My hands shake, for there is nothing I can do. Not even the regimental surgeon could save him now.

  He grabs me by the collar and pulls me close to his mouth, the strength already fading from his body. Taking two labored breaths before speaking, he says, “My cousin. Find him. He’s in Stuttgart, working the Neckar River.”

  His eyes start to lose focus.

  “His name, Niklas,” I plead, wishing I could do something to save the last of my friends. “What is his name?”

  His eyes shift to me, but his gaze looks far beyond my body. “Fritz,” he says. “Fritz Kohl.”

  “Niklas?” I ask, thinking he’s gone, but his faraway gaze shifts back to me for just a moment. “Tell the others to form up on me.”

  “What?” I have no idea what he is saying. His gaze becomes distant.

  “Form up on me and we shall carry the day.”

  His hand goes limp and the bubbles on his lip pop and do not reform.

  I sob as the last of my friends dies, murdered along a forgotten road in an attempt to make it home. Survivor of war, but victim of fate.

  ***

  The smoke from the burning house rises far behind me now. My forage bag is full -- so full that it feels heavy for the first time ever. If I am careful, I will have enough to see me back to my home country. I no longer walk at night, and I no longer live in fear of patrols or of the peasants in the fields.

  I walk with a loaded musket cradled in my arms and carry my steps with such purpose that all I meet give me a wide berth. I do not see the fear in their faces or the way they quickly run inside at my approach. All I see are the ghosts of my soldier friends marching beside me as I lead them home. I may appear to only be one man, but I am at the head of a column, a column of spirits that only I can see, and that only I can understand.

  When I am not far from the border, I spy a gaggle of men lumbering down the road, their uniforms a familiar patchwork of green and every color under the sun. Most do not have hats, and almost all are barefoot.

  I rise from my resting spot -- the shade of a large tree off the road -- to get a better look. None have muskets or crossbelts. Are these other deserters? As they get closer, I see that they are very thin, their uniforms ragged and filthy.

  Finally, my curiosity gets to me, and seeing as how none of them look strong enough to pose much threat, I yell out, “What unit?”

  The gaggle of men stops as one, their heads laboring to simply look to the side, eyes squinting. “First and second battalions of Wurttemberg light infantry,” one man croaks as he stares at my uniform. “Are we in Wurttemberg?”

  “No.”

  He looks disappointed. “So what are you doing out here? Are you a former prisoner, too?”

  Now I understand why the men look the way they do. “Did you escape?” I ask.

  The ragged little man shakes his head and manages a half smile. “Didn’t you hear? The war is over. The whitecoats signed a treaty and released all prisoners and ended the fighting.”

  “The war is over?”

  He nods.

  “Mind if I come with you?”

  He shrugs.

  I grab my forage bag and musket and fall in at the head of the tattered bunch. The man eyes me up and down and then looks at my musket.

  When my eyes meet his, I simply say, “I got away and managed to steal a musket off a wagon on the way out.”

  I don’t think he believes me, but then I begin handing out what’s left of my food to the hungry men, and suddenly no one cares.

  Soon, we are marching together, heading for the border that lies just ahead. As we pass over a small wooden bridge crossing a deep stream, I toss my musket over the railing and into the black water below.

  Now we are all just prisoners returning home.

  The men guarding the border pity us and let us pass, offering us water and small pieces of bread.

  As I pass by, one of the guards looks at me and asks, “Where are you headed?”

  I pause. I really only have one choice
, though I suppose I could return to my lord. But I’ve tasted freedom and prefer it over servitude.

  “Stuttgart.” I must go to the city. It is close to where I used to live, but it might as well have been a thousand miles away.

  He nods approvingly and points to the right at a fork in the road visible from here. “Not far. The road is clearly marked. Just follow the signs.”

  I move on, losing most of my comrades at the fork heading the other direction. The rest I help along as best I can, begging food from houses we pass. Here, the people treat their own well, and all are assisted and guided home by friends and neighbors until I’m the only one left.

  But I know I’m not alone. Their faces will haunt my dreams and their voices will fill my ears until the day I die.

  “Fritz Kohl?” I ask a man standing near a barge docked along the river bank.

  The burly man turns to look at me. “Who’s asking?”

  I remove my shako. “Henri Muller. I bring news of your cousin -- a good friend of mine -- Niklas Weber.”

  The suspicion drains from his face, replaced with a sense of foreboding. I look to the ground, hat in my hands, unsure of what to say or how to tell him. When I look up, I cannot speak.

  Fritz’s face is sympathetic and he puts his arm around me as the tears run down my dirty face.

  “Poor Niklas is dead?” he whispers, already knowing the answer.

  I nod.

  “Did he die bravely?”

  I see Niklas teaching me how to survive in war. I see him directing our young recruits. I see him saving dozens of clueless waifs like me. I see his dying eyes staring through me, far from the army or the war we tried to run away from.

  “He was the bravest of us all.”

  Thank you for reading Musket for a King.

  Thank you for purchasing my book. Please leave a review on Amazon, as reviews are the lifeblood of independent authors.

  Other books by this author:

  The Fly Guild Series: Follow Quinton from the streets of Star Gleam City to the waters of the Undersea as he seeks to free himself from a terrible curse.