“Well done.” He nodded brusquely. “It is acceptable.” He set the sword on a table and returned to his packing.
Paul was in ecstasy.
The next morning Jules left before the sun came up. Elisabeth and the boys rode with him to the Gare du Nord. Paul sat in the front of the carriage with his father. Moussa rode in the back with Elisabeth. Since the party, Paul had been distant with Elisabeth. He didn’t know how to look at her or what to say. Being near her made him feel awkward, so he did his best to avoid her. She was preoccupied and didn’t seem to notice.
Even at dawn the teeming streets burned with the fever of war. Their carriage could barely make the passage for the traffic. Hawkers peddled papers filled with Gallic passion. Dogs barked and roosters crowed the cocksure confidence of a defiant Paris. Throngs of soldiers went this way and that, each in a different direction, each on some private mission. Wagons full of ammunition and supplies clogged the roadways and created massive traffic jams.
All the activity of the streets funneled into the railway station. Ordinary traffic had ceased as train after train, regiment after regiment, boxcar after boxcar of supplies was loaded and departed. A ceaseless stream of armed men entered the station. There was no order, only confusion. Men didn’t know where they were going, or where the rest of their units were, only that they were supposed to report to the station. Some were early, some were late, some were at the wrong station. Many were drunk. Some had passed out on the platforms and were pushed aside roughly by the crowds. Women clung to men, and cried their farewells.
Jules made his way angrily down the platform, disgusted by the chaos. Elisabeth and the boys hurried along behind him, waiting as he stopped to chastise a drunk or order men to move wagons or boxes to make way for the traffic. It was hopeless, but Jules was Jules, and he would try: “You there! Move those crates! Corporal! Have that man picked up and brought into the station! See he’s placed on report… Where is your commanding officer?… Where is your rifle?… Who’s in charge here?”
None of it did much good. Some of the men sneered and made rude gestures as the colonel passed. Paul saw it, and wondered and worried. Moussa gawked at everything. Elisabeth wore a pained expression. She stepped gingerly around the drunks and the garbage and the boxes and did her best not to let any of it touch her, and wished she’d had the sense to bid Jules farewell at home. But at last they arrived at his platform. The train was just backing in, so they had to wait. Paul stood next to his father and watched as the locomotive belched smoke at the ceiling. Its shrill whistle echoed through the great hall. Clouds of steam billowed out from between the cars, enveloping the platform in a white misty shroud.
Without thinking Paul started to take his hand, but the colonel pulled away. “You are too old for that,” he said, without looking down. Paul dropped his hand and felt his face flush. The excitement of the day was being replaced by the reality of his father’s departure. It was just beginning to sink in: he was going away. Paul wouldn’t see him for a while, maybe a long while. Paul didn’t know how long wars took. He’d asked Moussa, who hadn’t known either but suggested they ask Gascon, who usually knew everything. But Gascon had only shrugged and said, “As long as it takes.” Paul felt a lump in his throat. He wished he could go.
Elisabeth stood next to Jules. Her face was bright and showed no strain. She had long since stopped worrying about his dying in battle. She was so certain that he would become a marshal of France that death must, of course, take a back seat to destiny. This war was a blessing. It was what she needed, what they needed. War sped promotions as peace never could. She was saying au revoir to a colonel, and would greet a general upon his return. She smiled at her husband as he was about to leave.
“I am certain you will bring us honor, Jules.”
Jules kissed her stiffly on both cheeks. Public displays of affection made him uncomfortable. “I shall write as affairs permit,” he said.
“Kill lots of Prussians, Uncle Jules!” said Moussa.
Jules waved. As he was about to step up into the train, Paul rushed up to him.
“Wait, Father, I forgot! I made you a present!”
With a broad smile he held it up to the big man. He had carved it himself from a piece of oak. It was crudely done, but recognizable. It was a toy soldier. An arm had broken off, so Paul had taken a straight piece of a twig and fashioned it into a rifle with a bayonet, and pasted it where the arm would have been. He painted a face on it, and the buttons of a uniform down the front. He used a walnut shell for a hat. The soldier had a small smile on its face.
Jules turned it over in his hands. It touched him, and he knew how long Paul must have labored over it. But his expression remained impassive. He regarded it with the same eye he used when Paul polished his sword.
“It is chipped,” he said. “And our troops don’t wear hats like that. You should pay more attention.” He slipped the soldier into his pocket. “Very well,” he said. “Make the next one with more care.” He turned and disappeared into the train.
CHAPTER 5
We will cross the Rhine in a week and be in Berlin in a fortnight,” Jules had predicted confidently in Paris. For the better part of two centuries, that is exactly what the French army would have done. But not this time, not with Prussia. The war news was desperate. Disaster had followed debacle with stunning rapidity. The expected invasion of Prussia never occurred. Delay and indecision had paralyzed the French army, while Prussian troops and artillery poured into the Alsace and Lorraine regions of France. A small French victory at Saarbrücken had been followed in rapid succession by humiliating defeats at Fohrbach, Wörth, and Weissembourg. Suffering from ill health, Napoléon had given up supreme command to Marshal Bazaine, whose own army had become trapped in the fortress town of Metz near the Prussian border. More than fifty thousand Frenchmen had been killed, wounded, or captured there. The Prussians had surrounded the town in an iron vise, cut the telegraph wires, and were building a makeshift railway to facilitate troop movements during what everyone expected to be a lengthy siege.
Line after line of defense had been abandoned: first the Saar River, then the Moselle, then the Meuse. The town of Nancy was relinquished by French troops without a fight, to be occupied by four Prussian soldiers. The passes of the Vosges had fallen. Strasbourg was being shelled; Toul was under siege. At Givonne, French troops panicked at the sight of the approaching enemy and fled into the woods. At Gravelotte, braver French troops blew their trumpets, and stood their ground, and died. The skies had opened up over France and all the thunder and lightning was Prussian, and all the rain French blood.
Everywhere it had been the same as collapse followed calamity, until the Third Army of the crown prince of Prussia had chased General MacMahon halfway across France, and threatened to strike at Paris itself. Exhausted, hungry, and stunned, MacMahon’s army had retreated to Châlons.
It was not Jules’s custom to dwell upon reports of setbacks and defeats. He had always drawn strength from adversity, determination from defeat. Around him stirred the four corps of a new army, more than one hundred and forty thousand strong, moving to join forces with General Bazaine, who had wired his intention to break out of Metz.
France would show the Prussians yet, by God.
She would show the world.
But although there was reason for optimism, Jules’s mood remained black. Great armies had clashed and thousands of men had given their lives, yet his own sword was dry, his pistol polished, his rifle silent in its scabbard. He had not seen a Prussian, not even a prisoner. Instead, his regiment had been relegated to the rear of the new army, where it arrested looters and set fire to French stores to keep them from the enemy – numbing duties that only worsened the soldiers’ morale.
Where that army had passed, nothing remained, not a twig or a bush or the stalk of a plant or the low limb of a tree. Anything that had been growing was ground into the earth. Anything that had not moved was crushed by wheels and hooves and boots into unr
ecognizable mulch. It was as though a massive swarm of locusts had passed, devouring everything in its path. Through this eerie desolation Jules led his regiment, looking for stragglers and keeping a careful eye out for the Prussians, of whom there was no sign. The plan to meet Bazaine depended upon speed, but the elements and the terrain conspired to slow the procession. A storm found the army and camped directly overhead, drenching it with torrential rain. Wagons broke down in the muck and had to be tipped over and pushed out of the way. Artillery was abandoned. Without dry wood to start fires, the men ate cold rations and drank bitter wine and huddled in miserable wet tents.
Each hour, Jules had more to deal with in the rear than before. There were deserters in growing numbers, who when caught were arrested and returned to Chalons. Stragglers were falling behind everywhere, first scores, then hundreds of them. Many were drunk and fell senseless into ditches. The army had passed through Reims without collecting enough rations. As a result, the men pillaged the countryside through which they moved. French farmers lost everything to their own army, from livestock to the stores of grain in their barns to the contents of their larders. They were left with nothing but their rage, which fell hardest upon Jules and his men.
It was no duty for a proud colonel of the Imperial Guard, to clean up behind a demoralized army. Where was the enemy he came to face?
Jules knew there was only one way to shake his mood.
He needed to find some Prussians to kill.
* * *
“Bonjour, Colonel.”
Major Dupree saluted as his squadron rode up to meet Jules. “Everything quiet, sir. The night patrols have reported back. They made it ten kilometers to the rear, there and there.” He pointed to the southeast, to a low ridge, and to the south, past a stand of trees barely visible in the distance. “If they’re coming, they’ll be coming from there.”
“They’re coming all right, and they won’t be long.” Jules nodded at the line of cattle disappearing into some woods behind the army. “We’re not exactly streaking across France,” he said. He looked over his shoulder. “At least the rains have kept the dust down. We can see what we’re about.” He drew a spyglass from his pack and scanned the horizon to the southeast in a slow, steady motion. The Prussians were out there, of that he was certain. For a day now they had heard the roar of distant artillery, and occasional bursts of rifle fire. But he saw nothing. It was unsettling.
From the northeast a messenger rode up, out of breath and in a hurry. “Colonel, sir. General MacMahon is turning the army north, to reprovision at Rethel. You are to concentrate your patrols on the southeast. He expects close Prussian contact there.”
“Rethel?” Jules repeated it, to make sure he had heard correctly.
“Yes sir, for the supply train. The Seventh Army still has no cartridges, and there is not enough food. We can’t provision ourselves from the countryside. The general wants four days’ worth. The entire army is to detour. Sir.” He saluted, and was gone.
“My God, it is madness to turn north, Colonel,” said Major Dupree. “We’re already going too slow. Now we’re changing direction, and going the wrong way. The Prussians will put us in a box. We’ll never get to the general in time.”
Jules couldn’t believe it himself. “I suspect you’re right, Major. But Rethel it is. Let’s get on with it.”
* * *
The small farmhouse sat in the Argonne hills, surrounded by rocky potato fields and broken patches of birch and ash trees. A barn sat behind the farmhouse. The buildings were old and shambling and run-down, with leaky roofs and cracked windows and doors that didn’t close. The place was parched and poor, and had never provided more than a meager living from a grudging land. A small stream-bed ran behind the house, which in the spring and early summer carried runoff from the hills to the Meuse River. Now it was dry. The main body of the army had missed the place, passing some distance to the west, so the fenced yard still contained horses, an ox, a pig, and some chickens.
The barn was on fire. The animals were frantic, moving in circles around the yard, shrieking and squawking, and charging at the fence. There were six saddled horses tied near the front door of the house, but outside there was no sign of people.
From a vantage point several kilometers away, Major Dupree saw the thick column of smoke rising from the fire.
“Prussians?” he asked, pointing to the smoke.
Jules looked through his glass. “Maybe. Let’s have a look.”
Quickly they made their way to the farm, keeping a careful eye on the woods as they went. The woods were still and seemed empty, even the birds not moving. They approached the house cautiously, and saw the horses tied at the front door.
“Those aren’t Prussian mounts,” the major said. “Or French army.” He thought for a moment. “Irregulars?”
“If they are they shouldn’t—” Jules began, but he was interrupted by the sound of men laughing, followed by a horrible low moan that grew in intensity. From out of the back door of the house burst a young woman clutching a small child to her breast. Her hair had half-fallen down and nearly covered her dirt-streaked face. Even so Jules could see that she was very pretty. Her dress was torn at the neck and hung from her shoulder. As she ran she kicked up dust, half-dragging one leg. Jules saw she had a clubfoot. The woman began running toward the front of the house when she suddenly caught sight of Jules and his men. Terrified, she drew up sharply. Her moan became a shriek. She looked desperately around and then ran the other way, toward the burning barn.
Jules dismounted quickly and started toward her. Major Dupree dispatched two details to check the perimeter of the farm. At that moment a man appeared through the back door of the house. He wore the uniform of a captain in the Francs-tireurs. He was laughing loudly and clapping, as if to the rhythm of a dance.
“Ma cherie!” he called after her. “You leave so soon! We have just begun!” Her wail never stopped. She disappeared around the side of the burning harn, dragging her foot as she made for the gate. He started quickly after her. Other men, dressed in gray uniforms, came out of the house behind him, clapping and laughing and drinking brandy from a bottle they passed around.
“Captain!” Jules’s voice was like a thunderclap. Startled, the captain turned. He froze as he saw the colonel, the broad smile on his face disappearing. Jules didn’t take his eyes from the man. With a terrible feeling in his stomach he felt he knew what was going on without looking further. He had heard much of the Francs-tireurs. They were irregular troops, guerillas who had been mobilized after the first French defeats to harass the Prussians, to ambush them, to cut their lines of communication, to create confusion and engage groups of the Prussian Uhlans who had been sent forward in small, detached parties to sow terror among the populace. The Francs-tireurs were men who had rejected the discipline of the ordinary military in favor of roaming the countryside, engaging in unconventional tactics. They were vicious fighters, and had been accused of great excesses, not only against the enemy but against the civilian population as well. It was said that they cut the throats of Prussians they caught with uncommon zeal, that they took body parts for trophies, and that the tortures they devised were grisly and drawn out. Jules didn’t know what was fact and what was myth about them. He had run across them in Châlons, and found them to be unruly and rude. Half of them ought to be court-martialed, he thought, and the other half sent packing. The group before him now were still laughing, although more quietly, and they continued to pass the bottle. They looked upon Jules and his troop with obvious contempt.
“Major Dupree, get some men to do something about that fire. Take care of these animals. Get them out of here. And see if the woman is all right.” Jules turned his attention to the captain of the Francs-tireurs. The man was disheveled and stank of alcohol. He was a large, strong man with a full, jet black beard that contrasted with his shock of gray hair. Thick brows cast a shadow over eyes that were red-rimmed from brandy but still arrogant and forbidding. He had the sull
en look of a man who’d been robbed of his purpose.
“You! What the devil is going on here?”
“We were passing by and saw some—”
Jules roared at him. “I’ll be addressed as Colonel, Captain! You’ve forgotten how to salute? What’s your name? What unit is this?” The man scowled and flung him a contemptuous half-salute. “Captain Victor Delescluze, Colonel, Third Vouziers Irregulars.” He said it slowly, his voice laced with sarcasm, drawing the last word out: “Irrrr… e… g… g… g… ulars.”
Some of the men behind him chuckled.
“As I was saying, Colonel, we saw some Prussians.”
“Here? You saw Prussians here?”
“I said it, didn’t I?”
“Colonel!” It was Major Dupree, his voice filled with urgency. Jules left the captain and strode around the side of the barn. The woman was there, with her child. She had sagged down onto the ground with her back to the fence. Next to the fence lay the body of a man, no doubt her husband. He wore the clothes of a poor farmer. He lay flat on his back, his arms and legs splayed out as he had fallen. He stared through sightless brown eyes at the sky. He had been shot once through the forehead.
As Jules approached, the farmer’s wife drew her knees up tightly and began rocking in the dirt. Her moans had become a steady deep lowing, sounds like an animal might make. She clung to her daughter so tightly that the knuckles of her hands were white from the pressure. The child was about three years old, a little girl with doe eyes and long lashes, her eyes puffy from crying. At the sight of Jules and Major Dupree, she buried her face in her mother’s chest, and they rocked softly together, back and forth, back and forth.
A shadow fell over them, and the woman looked up. Her eyes focused on something behind Jules. She stiffened and rocked faster. Jules turned. Delescluze stood behind him.
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