Empires of Sand

by Empires of Sand (retail) (epub)

  “You talk drivel, Delescluze. You mean to say you killed my troops because you dislike the emperor?”

  Delescluze looked at Jules with contempt. “Don’t be an ass, Colonel. I killed your troops because we were having a party and they tried to interfere. But if I’d thought about it for a minute, I guess I would have killed them because I dislike the emperor, yes. Yes, Colonel. I would kill anything that would prolong this wretched empire. Your emperor killed my father. First he stole his land. His Baron Haussmann, the great master builder, decided he needed a street. To get that street he took away my father’s life. Everything. His house, his shop, his livelihood. He tore it down and built a street in its place and put a sewer under it to carry all the royal shit out of Paris. A fucking street for my father’s life! He got nothing in return. No money, no note, no position to make up for his loss. Nothing. When my father protested they laughed in his face. No court would hear him. And when he took to the streets because there was nothing left, they shot him dead like a dog, and left his stinking corpse in that street for my mother to cart away. A street and some shit for my father’s life.”

  Delescluze took a long swig from the bottle. If he had not been drunk before, it looked as though he was intending to get there now. He sat silent for a minute, looking up at the moon and lost in thought. In the distance they heard artillery fire, the low rumble of a war that for the moment had passed them both by.

  “You hear that, Colonel? That is the sound of the Prussians kicking our backside. They are going to win this war, Colonel. They have won it already. Bismarck and his fucking plans – he’s doing for us what we haven’t been able to do for ourselves. He’ll stick that spike on top of his helmet right up Napoléon’s ass, and save the rest of us the trouble.”

  Delescluze took another drink. “I would kill you all if I could,” he said, “but I cannot, of course. I will go off to the woods and kill Prussians, because right now that is what I have to do. I hate them even more than I hate the grand ass imperial. Even more than I hate you. But I cannot kill enough of them to matter, and you and your scum are too weak to do it. They will win in the end.”

  “What do you intend to do with me?” asked Jules.

  The question appeared to take Delescluze away from the camp. His eyes glazed. For a long time he did not respond, and Jules thought perhaps he had not heard. But then Delescluze focused again, and looked at him with eyes that seemed fevered in the moonlight.

  “Since we took you prisoner I have devoted considerable thought to that question, Colonel. Of course, I considered immediate execution. I could have just left you inside that house, provided you with a little kerosene refreshment, and offered you one of my cheroots. I almost did that. Almost did. But I got to thinking that that was too honorable an end for such a pompous bastard. Somebody might think that the fine and noble and brave colonel had died in battle. I couldn’t have that. I couldn’t leave your children with the thought that their father was a hero who died fighting Prussians. I would hate for them to think that, Colonel, for there are no heroes in your empire. Plenty of idols, but no heroes.”

  He put a hand to his forehead. “And then it came to me, and it was like thunder in my head. I am a simple man, yet even I have to admire its beauty. You are the perfect instrument for my revenge. You ask what I intend to do with you? I am going to give you back to your own.” He smiled. “I am going to send you back to Châlons! I am going to send you back and let you be eaten by your own dogs. I will send you with a little amusement that should make your life interesting, at least for a while.”

  Jules stared at him blankly, not understanding.

  “You see, Colonel,” Delescluze said, “it is not you I wish to destroy. It is your honor.”

  Delescluze barked at one of his men. “A lantern! And see its light is kept low!” Delescluze searched his rucksack and drew out some paper and a pencil. When the light was set next to him on the ground, he leaned forward to write.

  “What is the date?” he asked.

  Jules said nothing.

  “No matter,” Delescluze shrugged. “I believe it is the twenty-fourth.” He bent over the paper:

  To the commanding officer, Châlons camp,

  I, Captain Victor Delescluze, commanding officer of the Third Vouziers Irregulars, hereby transmit into your custody one prisoner. On the 24th of August, in this year, in view of our unit, this officer sent his troops into battle against a strong Prussian regimental patrol in the vicinity of Marchault. My own troop was too far from the action to join the battle, and could only watch the progress of the engagement from a height. As his troops were committed, they at first seemed to do well against the Prussian foe. They stood bravely against furious fire, and I myself will recommend that they receive a unit citation for bravery. However, as we watched the tide of battle turning against them, we could see that the colonel, one…

  He looked up. “What is your name, Colonel?” he asked.

  “DeVries. Jules deVries.”

  “Ah, a noble name as I expected, Colonel. A fine name indeed.” He returned to his writing.

  …one Jules deVries of the Imperial Guard, who had been watching from a hillock as his men were being slain, turned his horse away from the action and departed at a gallop.

  It was our assumption that the colonel was going to rally other troops of his command who might as yet not be visible to us from where we stood. But as we made our way down to help in the cause of France, we discovered him still fleeing, and that there were no other troops for him to join. When we surprised him in his flight, the awful reality of what he was doing sank in. He had stripped off the jacket and blouse of his uniform, with the intention, we can only surmise, of exchanging it for one belonging to some civilian. When caught in the act he refused to answer our repeated questions, and engaged in a lengthy deception. But as to the-character of his crime, as to the certainty that he abandoned his men and had fled the battle like a coward, there can be no doubt.

  It is only because of this officer’s high rank that I have elected to return him to your jurisdiction instead of trying him in the field. I lack adequate rank to do what begs to be done, what must be done to preserve the honor of France and her sons who this day have shown such courage and willingness to die in her cause.

  I, and all of the men in my command who witnessed this act, will cooperate fully with an official court-martial when one can be convened. But owing to the presence of Prussian troops in the immediate vicinity, I cannot in good conscience remove myself or my men from the service of our nation, even for a moment, solely in order to dispose of a repugnant matter such as this. Consequently, I shall contact you by wire or post at the earliest possible opportunity so that we can bring this matter to its just conclusion.

  I trust that my actions meet with your understanding and approval.

  Vive la France!

  Victor Delescluze, Captain Third Vouziers Irregulars

  When he had finished he sat back against the log and took a drink of brandy. In the dim light and with a steady voice he read the letter back to Jules, a look of satisfaction on his face.

  “On the whole I believe it is rather well done, don’t you agree, Colonel?”

  Jules’s attitude as he listened had shifted from disbelief to near-amusement.

  “You are a fool, Delescluze. This will never work. They all know me. They know what I am.”

  Delescluze smiled and shook his head. “Your world is finished, Jules deVries. When this war is over, nothing will be the same, nothing ever again. You live among jackals, and there will be no emperor to protect you. No empire. Your own kind will forget you. They will turn on you, and eat you alive.”

  “You are mistaken, Captain. But no matter. What you do here” – he nodded at the letter – “is the feeble act of an idiot. If this is the best you can do, I overestimated you. You’d do better to shoot me. Because as long as it takes, I will find you and repay your treachery and murder.”

  Delescluze returned a
n amiable smile.

  “I think not, Colonel. We shall see. Your confidence in your world is greater than mine. If nothing else, this will provide you with some interesting times, of that I am certain. And I do not worry that you will find me. We will never see each other again, Colonel, not on this earth. Of that, too, I am certain.”

  * * *

  The guard dispatched by Captain Delescluze to accompany Jules to Châlons treated his prisoner roughly and with contempt. He bound Jules’s hands in front of him with a rope, so tightly that he drew blood, and on two horses they made their way down the road. There was heavy traffic, mostly caravans of wretched refugees fleeing from the desolation of the war taking place to the east. Jules had to wait as long trains of carts driven by oxen and filled with piles of bedding and worn furniture and pots and pans and clothing all vied for position on the dusty road. Women and children huddled together and rode on carts when they could, and walked when they could not. They had no idea whether the war was being won or lost, and trudged along in dusty silence.

  A few looked at the prisoner with curiosity. They could tell from his bearing, if not his uniform, that here was a man of position, of importance. At first he ignored them, lost in his own thoughts, but then, embarrassed, he tried to catch their gazes and hold them when he could, as if to reassure them that this was all a mistake, that he was undeserving of what they saw him endure. But none of them read it in his look. None of them understood. They always averted their eyes, and left him to ride in silence. After a while he gave up trying and stared straight ahead.

  The August afternoon blazed hot. Jules wore no helmet. The sun baked his head and dried him out. He was desperately thirsty, but would not permit himself to ask his captor for anything: neither food nor water nor assistance of any kind. He would sooner speak to the devil. The guard, hungover from his long night at the brandy with his companions, paid no attention as he half-rode and half-slept while they traveled. Occasionally his head would slump as he nodded off. He would catch himself and suddenly snap awake again. They passed hours that way, never stopping.

  At length they came to an obscure trail that was little more than a path but which provided a shortcut to Châlons. The guard took it, to be rid of the mass of traffic on the main road. The noise of the road faded as they left it behind. The new road was lined with trees that provided welcome shade and cooled the air. Near five o’clock they came upon a stream. The guard led them down an embankment alongside the narrow bridge to rest and water the horses. He dismounted and then pulled Jules roughly down, dumping him on his rear.

  “Right on your asshole where you belong,” he laughed.

  The man turned his back. Jules struggled to his feet and looked around. There was no one near that he could see. He hadn’t been thinking about escape, for he was certain that rational minds would prevail in Châlons, and that he would quickly turn the tables on his captor. But as the guard turned, Jules saw his opportunity and acted almost without thinking. This was his chance! Swiftly he ran forward, raising his bound hands and bringing them down around the guard’s neck. Energized by his own sudden movement, enraged by his captivity, by the brutal murders of his men, by the despicable slayings of the farmer, his wife and child, Jules felt all the emotion of the past twenty-four hours come to the surface as he lifted the man off his feet from behind, his wrists under his chin. The guard struggled fiercely, choking, unable to cry out, grasping at his neck in an attempt to loosen the vise grip Jules closed around him. His arms and feet flailed helplessly as Jules held him up. Jules intended to choke him into unconsciousness, work the knife from the man’s belt, and cut himself free. The guard gurgled and sputtered, but was powerless against the strength and fury of Jules’s attack, and he began to sag as his strength left him.

  Jules felt the heady excitement of triumph and knew that he would soon be free. Just then a powerful blow stunned him from behind. He lost his balance and crashed to the ground, the guard still within his grip.

  “Hold!” came a sharp voice. Jules could not see who was there, but held on as tightly as ever, until a vicious kick to the back of his head brought a gasp to his throat. His arms went limp and he let go. The guard rolled away from him, choking, coughing, and spitting. Facedown, he panted in the dirt.

  Jules recovered his own senses and looked around. A wave of relief swept over him. It was a sergeant of the Dragoons who had hit him.

  “Sergeant, thank heavens you’ve come,” he gasped as he struggled to his feet. “You have—”

  “Shut up, you! Who the devil are you anyway? I saw you assault this man!” The sergeant looked at Jules’s wrists, which were still bound, and at the prostrate form of the guard, still gasping on the ground. The sergeant helped the guard to his feet. He still couldn’t speak for the damage to his throat. As the man gathered his strength Jules tried again, knowing that he must take command of the situation quickly or not at all.

  “Sergeant!” he roared. “I am Colonel Jules deVries of the Two Hundred Twentieth Regiment of the Imperial Guard! This man has imprisoned me falsely. He’s a killer, part of a group of irregular troops operating near Vouziers. They took my squad by surprise. They murdered them all. They murdered civilians—”

  “Shut up, I said!” the sergeant snapped. He regarded Jules with uncertainty and suspicion. He couldn’t quite make out what he had before him, except that the man bore no resemblance to a colonel of the Imperial Guard. He had the bearing, it was true, and the manner of an officer. But his physical appearance – the ravaged face, battered and puffed and black and blue above the tattered remnant of a uniform, torn where epaulets and medals might have been – said otherwise.

  “A colonel, eh?” he said. “I can’t rightly say what you are by the looks of you, but if you step out of line once more I’ll clomp you again! I’ll have order here, by God I will!”

  The guard found his voice at last. “This man is a prisoner, Sergeant,” he croaked. “You saw him! He tried to kill me! He’s done it before, I tell you. He’s full of treachery. I have orders to transmit him to the commanding officer of the Châlons camp. Here, here, you’ll see… I have this.” He pulled the letter Delescluze had written from his pocket and handed it to the sergeant.

  Jules raised his hands in frustration. “Sergeant, those are lies!” he said, but as his hands came up the Dragoon, now thoroughly suspicious, pushed him away and stepped back. He opened the letter and read it slowly through. Several times he stopped and looked at Jules, and then took up his study of the letter again. When he was finished he shook his head.

  “A bad business,” he muttered to himself. “Terrible.”

  “Sergeant—” Jules began, but the man cut him short. “Silence! You have already admitted you are this man’s prisoner. Do you now deny it?”

  “No, Sergeant, but if you’ll—”

  “Shut up! Do you deny you were trying to escape?”

  “No, but—”

  “Enough!” He turned to his horse, opened his pack and drew a pen from it. “It is simple. If you are innocent of these charges, you shall be acquitted. In the meantime, I must allow this man to carry out his orders, and I must report what I have seen with my own eyes. Justice demands it. I can do nothing else… Colonel.” The sergeant wrote quickly on the back of Delescluze’s letter. When he was finished he handed it back to the guard, whose countenance bore a smug grin of satisfaction at the turn of events.

  “There you are, man. I’ve told them what I’ve seen today. You’re lucky I came along. You’re a sloppy one, all right. I doubt your rabble could have surprised the Imperial Guard. You wouldn’t make it ten minutes with the Dragoons. Watch he doesn’t get behind you again. Now be off, both of you.”

  Jules watched his guard pocket the sergeant’s new condemnation. For the first time since his nightmare began, he felt the forebodings of disaster.

  CHAPTER 6

  Moussa and Paul lay on their backs in their tree house and smelled the smoke and stared at the flocks of birds streami
ng by. Below them, away across the open field, Henri and Gascon had spent the morning cutting trees. The two men had been at it for days, using a great saw whose teeth were huge and hungry. When they had one firebreak cleared, they set fire to a whole section of the old forest. Serena had come to join them, to bring them lunch and help. She stood next to Henri with her arm around his waist as he ate. They watched the magnificent shade trees of old and solid oak, some more than a thousand years old, go up in flames, and there were tears in her eyes.

  All around Paris it was the same. At Fontainebleau, at Vincennes, at the foot of Mont Valérien, forests burned and the skies filled with smoke. During the past few days the destruction had reached the Bois de Boulogne, the splendid park the emperor had created next to the Château deVries. The Bois had been desolated, all its trees cut, its wonderful heavy gates removed. Workers were preparing huge stone ramparts with loops for rifles and embankments for artillery to stand in their stead.

  The defense committee had convened in Paris and had decreed that the fires must be set to deprive the advancing Prussian armies of their protection. In the east, near the Prussian border, enemy troops had found refuge in the forests and, from their cover, had wreaked terrible havoc on the French forces. Marshal MacMahon had asked Napoléon for permission to torch the forests, but the emperor had refused, saying he didn’t want to see the beautiful woods destroyed. Thousands of French casualties had resulted. Paris would not make the same mistake. She would offer the Prussians no shelter.

  Yet few in Paris really believed the Prussians would make it to the city’s walls. Conflicting reports flowed in by the score from distant fields of battle. Elisabeth argued with Henri when he announced the decision of the defense committee and told her he would begin torching the vast forests of the château itself. She was struggling to maintain her optimism in the face of mounting evidence that the French cause was in serious trouble.