Wolf Hunt

by Isabel Reid (Translator) Armand Cabasson

  Finally the intensity of combat diminished. Margont, overjoyed at having survived, walked towards Lefine, to celebrate with him. He was so relieved and happy that, without thinking, he passed in front of the breach in a wall. A sharp report rang out. Instinctively

  Margont dived for cover. He was not sure he had been hit because he had strained his muscles so much that he hurt all over. Lefine’s face was distorted in terror. Margont followed his friend’s gaze and looked at his side. A dark stain was spreading there.

  ‘I can’t believe I did that,’ said Margont, as he lay carefully down.

  CHAPTER 3

  MARGONT spent an interminable amount of time lying by the Danube in the company of a mass of other wounded. Groans and entreaties mingled with the deep rumbling of cannon fire. Medical orderlies, far too few of them, ran from casualty to casualty. One very young orderly regarded Margont with disdain and, without even taking the time to examine his wound, announced: ‘It’s nothing.’ Another, however, looked horrified whenever he passed him. Finally a small boat brought a handful ofvoltigeurs overburdened with munitions, a pathetic reinforcement, and left with several lucky patients, one of whom was Margont.

  Napoleon had planned to cross the Danube very quickly. He had not believed that the Austrians could hold out against his army and had thought they would withdraw. The totally unexpected turn of events generated utter confusion. Lobau was acting as a stopping-off point for the divisions who found themselves stranded, and also as a temporary hospital. Soldiers accumulated on the

  island like grains of wheat in a granary. A hundred thousand Austrian soldiers still firmly held the east bank of the Danube, while Vienna, whose population was hostile to the French, lay on the west bank. Only yesterday Napoleon had controlled most of Europe, and now his empire appeared to have been reduced to the Isle of Lobau, two and a half miles long by two and a half miles wide.

  Margont was treated by an orderly who was well-intentioned but intimidated by the officer’s rank. He apologised as he clumsily pricked Margont’s skin again and again. The wound was superficial; the bullet had only grazed his side, biting into the flesh without piercing his abdomen. Gangrene was what Margont was worried about. Was it going to devour his body like rot in an apple? He spent the night in a terrible state of anxiety.

  The next day, at four in the morning, the battle resumed.

  The groaning multitude of casualties on Lobau increased, spreading like a tide of agony. Medical orderlies and volunteers offered them pails of water that they refilled from the Danube. Not the best drink, but there was nothing else. More French and Badois arrived, bleeding.

  One of the newly arrived sergeants, with as many slashes as an old patched shirt, propped himself up on one elbow and loudly proclaimed: ‘We’ve come from Aspern, troops! We recaptured that damned village! Long live Marshal Massena!’

  This news was greeted with cries of ‘Long live Massena!’ and ‘Long live the Emperor!’ Margont thought of Lefine, Saber and Piquebois. Were they still wandering around amongst the heaped ruins, suffocated by the smoke, and fighting the Austrians bullet for bullet? Or had the regiment been relieved, was it resting at the rear, in reserve? Perhaps his friends were lying broken, in a boat, their hands trailing in the water, drifting ...

  News and rumours continued to spread, and became more and more exaggerated. Aspern and Essling had been attacked again, and lost, or almost, then retaken, nearly ... And in the plains separating the two villages, the killing continued as ever. Meanwhile the bridges had been repaired again and soldiers swarmed over

  them. Boats continued to cross to and fro, so weighed down with casualties that they became dangerously flooded. A major from the 57th of the Line was brought in, along with some cuirassiers furious at having been stopped in the middle of a charge.

  ‘Silence for the major!’ shouted a quartermaster sergeant.

  ‘Yes, listen to the major!’ echoed the cavalrymen.

  The officer was placed in the shadow of a willow tree and the soldiers fell silent. His thigh was bleeding but he paid no attention to that and focused on his audience.

  ‘The Emperor is crushing the Austrian centre!’ he announced vigorously.

  An explosion of ‘Hurrah!’ and ‘Long live the Emperor!’ followed. In fact the major, intoxicated by finding himself propelled into the limelight, had made his declaration more convincing than the attack he had participated in warranted. While the casualties on Lobau rejoiced at the demise of the Austrian army, in reality that army’s artillery was destroying the ranks of their attackers, and even the French cavalry, called in to back up the ranks, could not defeat them decisively. But it was true that the extreme aggression of an adversary far inferior to them in number had shaken the Austrians’ confidence and had forced them to exercise caution and moderate their hotheadedness.

  Margont spotted Jean-Quenin Brémond, an old childhood friend. Brémond had reddish light brown hair and large side whiskers. Despite his boundless energy, he radiated calm. He indicated which of the wounded were to be operated on as soon as possible, teaching an orderly in passing how to tie bandages more securely and requisitioning the more able-bodied to help out the others ... His practised eye picked out Margont immediately. He turned pale and strode rapidly over to examine the wound.

  ‘It’s not serious.’

  Margont breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘But even so, there is still the risk of gangrene.’

  ‘I know, Jean-Quenin. I’ll change my bandages when they’re dirty and I’ll make sure that I eat properly. Have you treated anyone we know?’

  ‘No. But that doesn’t mean anything. There are wounded all over the place.’

  ‘And here come even more!’ cried several soldiers.

  The Danube swept away the remains of the little bridge, which had just collapsed again. Pontoniers and infantry, carried away on the current, waved their arms frantically. While the thousands of soldiers of Marshal Davout’s III Corps found themselves trapped on the island, Napoleon fulminated on the east bank, searching for reinforcements to sustain his attack on the Austrian centre.

  ‘It’s going increasingly badly for the citizen emperor,’ said Brémond worriedly.

  He had been a revolutionary from the outset and did not approve of the transition from republic to empire, even though the Empire did respect several of the fundamental principles of the Revolution. So from time to time the medical officer referred to Napoleon as ‘the citizen emperor’ because he considered that all citizens were perfectly equal. To him, being emperor was a job like any other, and more important than ‘emperor’ was the word ‘citizen’. Nothing annoyed him as much as people who used the term in an ironic or pejorative fashion, to insult their servants. He came across people like that more and more often, republicans who were not prepared to make any concessions. If he had been a colonel, a ‘citizen colonel’, Napoleon would probably have entrusted him with the garrison of a town. A far-off town and a small garrison. But as he was a doctor, he could at least speak freely about bandages and amputated limbs.

  Margont had a more complex point of view. Aged nine in 1789, he had become immediately impassioned by the revolution, understanding only a minuscule part of what was happening, and imagining the rest. Twenty years later, like Jean-Quenin, he was a humanist and a republican but his opinion of Napoleon was slightly different. Monarchies and empires, Austrian, Prussian or English ... they had all brought war to the French Republic, and its product, the French Empire. Mostly because this empire did not believe in aristocracy by right of blood, and accorded everyone the same rights. The proponents of each of these models, monarchy

  and republic, wanted to eradicate the other model in order to mould the world in their own image. Now France found itself truly isolated in this struggle. The only other republic lay all the way across the Atlantic, in the United States of America. Who should one support? There were really only two possibilities. Either Napoleon, the military genius who, although he had tr
ansformed the Republic into a ‘republican-inspired empire’, defended some of the core principles of the Revolution with his thundering victories. Or one could support a government - but made up of whom? - that would not be able to stay in power when faced with enemy armies, at which point a French king would rise again, extracted from some unknown dusty prison cell. A king that the European monarchies would hasten to install on a throne in Paris before arguing about who should control the strings of this puppet monarch. Margont therefore served the Emperor because there was no choice. To him, ideas were more powerful than men. Whether people marched crying ‘Long live the Republic!’ as he had done, or ‘Long live the Emperor!’ did not matter; they all carried with them the ideals of the Revolution: liberty, equality, respect for everyone ... And these notions infected those they were fighting. If republican ideals did not triumph immediately, they would win out in the end. The question was what would happen until then. For war followed war without respite, year upon year... ‘Since your wound is superficial, you can make yourself useful,’ said Brémond. ‘I think there’s someone you should meet.’

  The medical officer pointed, but all Margont could see were the wounded and suffering.

  ‘She’s Austrian but she speaks good French.’

  Margont spotted her. She was wearing an ivory-coloured dress with bloodstains at the foot, like a deathly hem.

  Many women chose to follow the army although it was forbidden if they were not actually employed by it. Canteen workers and supervisors, laundresses, young bourgeois girls dreaming of adventure, society women, Austrian women who fell in love for the duration of a campaign, prostitutes: these distressing times rendered them all equal, all in the same boat. The sentries tried to

  prevent them from reaching Lobau, but in the general confusion several had, in spite of everything, managed to get there. These women searched for their husbands or lovers amongst the sufferers, praying all the while that they were not there, offering water and trying to get information ... Stationing themselves on the south side of the island, where the prisoners and wounded were sent, they were far enough from the fighting not to be exposed to any danger. The front line was in fact four miles to the north-east and could not be seen because of the woods covering the island and the banks of the Danube. It was possible to tell where it was only because of the thunderous noise, and the plumes of smoke that filled the sky.

  ‘She’s looking for a missing boy,’ explained Brémond. ‘In all this chaos everyone laughs at her questions. If an officer were to accompany her, some of the soldiers might be a little more courteous, and her search would be much more effective.’

  ‘I’ll go and help her.’

  Margont stood up, grimacing: an invisible beast was devouring his side. But helping out whenever possible came naturally to these two men. The reality of war had failed to poison their humanist spirit. They did not view the woman as an enemy. Their adversaries were the kings, and those who supported them. As fervent republicans, they wished to liberate the Austrian people from the monarch’s stronghold.

  ‘But be careful!’ added Jean-Quenin Brémond. ‘Don’t start leaping about, forgetting about your injury.’

  Margont nodded meekly.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. Good doctors see bad patients everywhere!’

  As he approached the young woman, Margont scrutinised her without her noticing. She was undeniably charming. Her brown hair emphasised her pale complexion, and her face, with its narrow nose, fine eyebrows and delicate features, attracted many glances. But as well as her enchanting appearance, she also gave a disconcerting impression, perhaps false, of both strength and fragility. This paradox, infuriating, like a jumble of knots impossible to unravel, made a profound impression on Margont. He

  asked himself if he was the only one who felt it. She was going up to Austrians as well as French, shuddering at the horror of their injuries, asking them something, but they all, invariably, shook their heads. She stopped for a while, undecided, in front of a soldier of the Landwehr, the Austrian military service, whose head was no more than a bundle of bandages, his grey uniform an amalgam of shredded linen. As he appeared to be deaf to her questions - or perhaps he was dead - she had to make do with examining his hands and then she moved away. She repeated the same sentences, sometimes in German, sometimes in lightly accented French.

  'I'm looking for a young Austrian, Wilhelm Gurtz. He’s sixteen years old, blond and quite well built. He may have signed up for the Austrian army, so he might be here somewhere.’

  She spoke with composure despite the sight of all the martyred bodies and the weight of the looks she was receiving. Margont was struck by a feeling of consternation tinged with jealousy. He had been injured, but no woman had seen fit to seek him out. The

  Austrian girl disappeared into a wood where there were more injured men than trees. A cuirassier motioned her over. His mouth was bleeding, coating his red moustache with scarlet foam.

  ‘He’s lucky to have such a concerned sister!’

  The Austrian girl shook her head. ‘I’m only a friend. He has no family, he’s an orphan.’

  ‘I’m an orphan too!’ cried a voltigeur with bandaged hands. ‘But I don't have a friend looking for me!’

  Margont appeared at that moment. He bowed courteously. ‘Mademoiselle, allow me to introduce myself — Captain Margont, of the 18th Infantry Regiment of the Line. Perhaps you would accept my assistance in your search?’

  The young woman suppressed a smile — how chivalrous. She gazed at him briefly, trying to decide whether she could trust him. ‘That’s very kind. My name’s Luise Mitterburg. Do you know where there are other prisoners or wounded?’

  Everywhere, Margont almost replied.

  ‘Let’s follow the river,’ he said.

  The abandoned voltigeur watched them moving away. He felt he had paid his dues - he was too often sent to the front line for his liking - was he not due something in return?

  ‘Beautiful girls for the officers, wenches for the soldiers and misfortune for the voltigeurs,’ he concluded.

  There were two people accompanying Luise: a scowling old woman dressed in black and an aged servant. Luise oscillated between discouragement and determination.

  ‘I spent part of my childhood in an orphanage,’ she explained spontaneously. ‘I’m very attached to it, even though I had the good fortune to be adopted. One of the orphans, Wilhelm Gurtz, an adolescent, disappeared three days ago. We’re looking everywhere for him. Perhaps he took it into his head to join one of the regiments as a volunteer. We absolutely must find him.’

  Her voice faltered on the last sentence. But her eyes remained dry. Margont asked, ‘What does he look like, your—’

  ‘Quite plump, with chubby cheeks - he eats out of loneliness and despair. Straw-blond hair, thickset, bandy-legged, and he walks

  slowly. He has very blue eyes, and he seems young for his age. A regiment probably wouldn’t take him ... oh, what am I saying, of course they would! Regiments accept everyone. Soon battalions will be made up of children and old people.’

  It was already a bit like that, in fact. As for a lower age limit, there were child-soldiers as young as ten, platoon members as young as fourteen, and combatants as young as sixteen.

  ‘So what do you suggest, Captain?’

  ‘The prisoners are gathered—’

  ‘I’ve already been there.’

  Margont found her habit of interrupting him irritating but rather seductive.

  ‘Why do you keep looking in that direction?’ she asked, indicating Aspern.

  Although the ruins of the village were hidden by the woods surrounding it, fat columns of smoke, either white or black, signalled its presence. The Austrian woman was obviously observant.

  ‘I was there yesterday,’ replied Margont. ‘That’s where I was

  injured. My friends are probably still there. As everything has been destroyed, I’m wondering what is still burning.’

  ‘Even when war has rava
ged everything, it must still burn the cinders.’

  Luise leant against a tree. Her face was filmed with perspiration. The heat was crushing, and the sight of the wounded made the atmosphere even more suffocating. ‘I’ll never find him. The war has plunged the world into chaos - who will care about an orphan?’

  ‘Me,’ retorted Margont.

  She laughed, perhaps mockingly - he could not tell.

  ‘Why?’

  Margont hesitated, then said more than he would have liked. ‘Because at a certain stage of my childhood, I also found myself more or less an orphan.’

  Either he had said too much or too little. Luise, however, unnerved him by replying: That doesn’t surprise me. I had guessed as much.’

  She paled and, forgetting about Margont, went over to a greying man who was wandering amongst the injured, trying to avoid looking at them. With his eyes reddened by crying and his black clothes, he looked like a crow of ill omen. When he saw her, he shook his head sadly. ‘He’s dead,’ he announced in German. ‘It’s not the war, he was murdered.’

  ‘That’s what we were afraid of, isn’t it?’ she answered with surprising calm.

  ‘Some French soldiers are guarding his remains. They asked me a great many questions and they don’t want to let us have the body. They think he was a spy or a partisan. And even worse, they’re exhibiting his body near Ebersdorf.’

  Their military failure is making them aggressive and stupid. They—’

  She stopped, realising that Margont might understand German. A good thought, but a little late ... She turned towards him and, tilting her head slightly to one side, said courteously in French: ‘I’ve just been told that Wilhelm has been found. Near here. Alas, he ...’

  She found it hard to continue.

  Margont spared her the necessity. ‘I speak your language.’

  Far from being embarrassed by that announcement, Luise went on: ‘It’s a very great sadness for us not to be able to bury the boy in consecrated ground. I know that I’m taking advantage, but perhaps, since you’re an officer, you would be able to help us sort out the misunderstanding by explaining things to the high command of your army. We only want to learn what happened and to offer him a decent burial. Please ...’