Marcel grinned. ‘That is how we eat. Laroche will get thin soon enough. Seniority dictates the order of turns. One at the time, one spoonful, each taking one after another. Scalding thin water it is usually, for we do not, as you know, have much food. You might have some bread with it. The ones, who stand heat the best, are sure not to miss their turn. Best develop a parched throat so you keep fed. No sybarites here, girls,’ he said. Thierry was walking carelessly forward, shooting glances at us. Marcel leaned on us. ‘Now hear me out. In there is the captain, we call him citizen Freckles. He is a young fellow. A miller from Burgundy. He likes people who know about many kinds of bread, how to make flour, and basically all the down to earth matters. He will ask you questions, so smile. Tell him we are married, and you would like to be a cantiniére. Captain will say no, perhaps, and perhaps he will transfer us to another company, one that lacks a cantiniére. I do not wish you to wash this lots shitty pants. I will deal with Thierry.’
‘You surely love your own company?’ Henriette asked, alarmed.
He shrugged, a pained look on his face. ‘I love my woman too and have a responsibility. I am sincere, and will not let you down. I promised you would be safe here.’
Henriette smiled at him and nodded as I scanned the crowd. ‘Why are there so many civilians here?’ I asked.
Marcel eyed the surrounding bustle. Men were lounging and laughing around the cauldrons. It was a raucous crowd with very few pieces of uniform. He scoffed. ‘You mean the 1792 and 1793 draft? The men with barely a piece of uniform between them? They are not volunteers, who are excellent soldiers. These were forced, draftees. Many troublemakers. Bad quality, much of it, but some we take and make into proper men.’
We arrived near a dark cliff, and from there, overlooking vast woods, we saw army bivouacking. Thousands of fires created an unbelievable sea of light, as if it was a day, the murmur, music and laughter of men making it seem like a market. There were some tents, and one commanded attention, being larger than the others. ‘The tent of the General of the Army, Dumbertion resides there, it seems. Now dear,’ Marcel said. ‘You will be selling various items, food, drink, to the company; we will see which company if we are lucky. You will need a tonnelet, a barrel where you will carry brandy, or something close to it, and you have to have tin cups for serving it. Just, Henriette, treat the men like family, and they will share any loot with you.’
‘I have no money to buy such things,’ Henriette said. ‘I have not a sou…’
He smiled. ‘I will get us started and we will loot the rest so we can take care of the boys.’
She looked at him, aghast. ‘So we are to be thieves? I mean, not only to feed us, but to profit?’
‘Soldier, dear, is a thief out of necessity, didn’t you hear me say it is as God intended,’ he grinned and kissed her, mollifying her. We arrived at a ragged tent that had once been luxurious. It had visible faded red posts with silver etchings, and the linen, while frayed now, looked decently clean. Marcel scowled at it. Thierry smiled at him.
‘There have,’ the bushy bearded sergeant said, ‘been changes.’ He went to lean on to the tent. ‘They are here.’
A caporal-fourrier, the quartermaster in his fancy undercoat opened the tent flap. He eyed us appraisingly and smiled at Henriette, quite forgetting his airs. He nodded inside. Thierry sat down on a bucket outside the tent, lighting his pipe. We noticed he had some men with him. One was hard looking man, muscular and fey with thin, dark hair, another tall, gaunt, with a weasel-like face, pockmarked cheeks and nervous eyes. Marcel hesitated, put a hand on his musket, but then ducked inside.
We followed and found Marcel gazing carefully at the man sitting behind a simple desk, holding a stack of papers, a straight sword on top of many others. The man raised his face from the sheets that were violently crumbled, as he apparently was very frustrated at skimming them over. Immaculately dressed, in culottes of fine linen, gold braid all over his jacket, the man was not the captain Marcel had thought to meet. Smart, even if surprised, Marcel snapped to perfect attention, his eyes hovering above the captain’s head. Henriette pulled me to her side, to the shadows.
I stared at the man.
The captain was a hard-bitten man. Not a young man, nor old, his shoulders were wide and powerful and his strong chin was permanently stubbled. That was the only dent in his otherwise perfect military décor, where others just accepted the filthy conditions and lived like pigs.
I found him disturbing and could not tear my eyes off him. There was an air of dignity around him. He was handsome and rugged, his hands large as he worked. I had a hunch if he were to ask me to jump; I’d jump like a happy hare, hoping to please him. I felt a fool, but there it was. I thought he was gorgeous, and my solemn oaths to God evaporated from my heart in an instant. When he glanced at Marcel, his eyes flashed like I imagined wolf's eyes would, when stalking a deer. The grey orbs took in the rod-straight sergeant, as he changed one paper from the top of the pile in his hands. His eyes flashed back to that paper.
‘Citizen Nouret,’ he said, and the caporal-fourrier jerked, and stood to attention.
The captain took the paper as if it was made for the toilet and dropped the rest unceremoniously to the desk. He eyed the paper, his face betraying his disgust, twitching as if swallowing vomit. ‘I realize that captain in charge of this madhouse of a company could not read, but I can. You are asking for a signature for mysterious gaiters we have apparently received for a hundred and two men, no? Payment for them, no? You wish me to pay for the damned gaiters? Gaiters, which the men would dump after first march anyways, if they had them, which they do not.’
The caporal-fourrier was sweating. He nodded. ‘Citizen captain, we just received the bills, and they should be signed, so…’ He went quiet, as the captain stared at him like an animal.
Then the captain jumped up, made a ball out of the paper, and walked next to the caporal. God, he was tall. ‘Open mouth.’
The caporal looked confused.
‘Open the fucking mouth, citizen!’ the captain said with a hint of violence.
The caporal did, and the captain placed the ball of crude paper in his mouth, and using his finger, gently pushed it inside. I giggled despite myself, and looked down as everyone stared at me for a second. The captain’s eyes lingered on me and I felt myself blushing, as I glanced at him. After some seconds, he tore his gaze off me.
‘We have not,’ the captain said, calmly, ‘received any gaiters. Now, if you try to make me sign shit like that again, I will have you in the ranks. If you have a supply officer threatening you for this money, you just have to cope. When I get the gaiters, we will sign for the useless pieces of crap. Not before. Cheat me again at your peril. Now, go sit in the corner and swallow that paper. Do not dare remove it.’ Then the captain snapped his eyes at Marcel. ‘Citizen sergeant.’
Marcel’s back went even straighter, if possible.
Captain grabbed a paper. ‘You were fetching ten men for the company. Replacements. You came back with five.’
Marcel adopted the most emotionless voice I had ever heard. ‘Sir. Yes sir. Four men only, sir. Two ran away en route, victims of the disease of an amorous kind, meaning they had syphilis, guillotine took at least one, and one, sir, was twelve. I sent him home to his fine papa. There were never ten men, not even in the depot. They are, sir, like the gaiters. Simply not there.’
The captain smiled. His smile was sarcastic, leaving one unsure if he mocked you gently, or if he was truly angry, or even wondrously happy. In his dark blue, gold braided jacket, he looked like a man not to cross, in any case. He slowly eyed us, and then snapped his face at Marcel. ‘You wanted to make up for the deficit by a beautiful woman or two? Have them march with the men, their juicy tits bouncing, loading and firing like the best of the chasseurs, no? We take no whores in the company.’
Marcel did not flinch. ‘She is my wife. Not a whore sir. Neither is her daughter.’
The captain laughed drily. He went b
ack to his seat, flipped his coattails back. He had not adopted the sans-culottes fashions, especially the short coat that seemed to be in a rage. He spat. ‘I see. I am the captain now. The last captain, God bless his soul, got shot in May. I have rules he did not have. One of them is about women. Too many in the camp will make men sloppy. What of her then? You wish her to wash and grind, and warm your happy bed, sergeant? I hear you are one of the better sergeants in the whole battalion, and I would do well to keep your bed a happy one. But what is she to do when the bed is empty?’
‘Run a canteen for the company? Sir,’ Marcel said, resolutely.
‘We have a cantiniére,’ captain said woodenly. ‘One is all the regulations allow.’
‘Surely, citizen captain, there are companies with no…’
He sniffled. ‘I need my sergeants. That is not an option. Fuck the other companies.’
‘I would not, citizen,’ Marcel said, showing some emotion in his voice, ‘have this woman wash shirts and pants.’
The captain ogled us. ‘Are they royalty? Too fine to clean these things? Or do they have back problems? That would make your bed an unhappy one, sergeant.’
‘No, sir, citizen,’ Marcel said, holding back a curse. ‘But I hoped to…’
A man stepped to the tent. All went quiet, as he turned to look at us. He had a high sweaty forehead, which he was wiping with his elaborately braided coat sleeve, looking flummoxed. His eyes were wet, nervous, and his huge belly hung under the saggy waist sash, which he was obviously accustomed to adjusting regularly. The captain eyed him with hostility.
‘Citizen Chambon, my colonel,’ the captain said sarcastically, yet not sarcastically enough to be entirely obvious. ‘What can I do for you?’ the captain asked as the colonel’s eyes went over us all. His eyes rested on the caporal that had a paper sticking out of his mouth, but he apparently decided to say nothing of the matter. Colonel Chambon waited for the captain to get up, but the captain was looking at his fingernails. The colonel ignored this as well. ‘Anything the matter, citizen captain?’ The colonel asked.
Captain flashed him an innocent smile and I thought he looked fine, when he smiled, his grey eyes twinkling with mirth. ‘Why no, sir. Nothing at all. I am here, discussing gaiters and possibilities of hiring washerwomen for the company.’ He put an emphasis on the washerwomen as he glowered at Marcel.
The colonel straightened his back. ‘There are rumors, citizen, of damnable traitors in the camp, escorted by your own, no doubt, unwitting men. I have sergeant-major Thierry outside with some properly instructed men to escort the murderers to the Parisian representatives.’ He sweated as the captain’s animal-like eyes regarded him.
Captain stared at him coldly and then finally smiled. ‘Ah, citizen Thierry. Yes, he told me I would have visitors of questionable reputation. He hinted that there would be high-ranking people looking for these visitors. I thanked him, for his diligence is commendable. But I see only two sorry women. Do you see these criminals here, citizen colonel?’
‘They are the two women, indeed. Jeanette and Henriette Baxa. Accused of a most serious of crimes, of betraying France! Of being compatriots to late Georges Danton. She was his lover. A letter of insipid love from the mongrel to her proves it. Also, they are accused of trying to kill a good Jacobin in Lyons. They must be given over to citizen Saliceti or to citizen Robespierre.’
They had the letter from Georges, as if they needed it, I scoffed, and the captain’s eyes flicked at me, noting my disgust. Then the captain looked thoughtful and I feared for us.
Marcel was about to speak, but the captain grunted before he did. ‘And my men, the ones who might have escorted these people?’
The colonel shook his head amicably, happy the captain was not being difficult. ‘They will be well rewarded. Except the one who tried to help kill the Jacobin. But the rest? Rewards for them. You and I, captain, will get ours too.’
The captain shrugged. ‘Rewarded with arrears? No, citizen colonel. We, the loyal men need no such rewards. We serve the Republic, and that is the end of it.’
They stared at each other and the captain took out a cigar, looking sated as a priest after a sumptuous meal. He glanced at me carefully, puffing at the crude smoke and this time, I held his eyes. He was gauging me carefully, and I was unable to read his thoughts, though I smiled at him nervously, removing a lock of hair from my face. I think he smiled briefly back, hopefully happy with the bravery I was showing. I did not entirely feel brave, though. The colonel was shuffling his feet. ‘I will call sergeant-major Thierry then, and get these…’
I tensed, ready to fight, forgetting the captain. Gilbert. They would give us to him, eventually, or just have us shot in the woods. Marcel was sweating, his fingers tightening on the musket, when the captain got up, swiping his hand. ‘That is not necessary. No.’
‘What do you mean, captain?’ The colonel said, nonplussed.
The captain looked astonished and swished his hand to us. ‘This here is not… Was it Jeanette Baxa? Henriette? No. These are the Lefebvre’s. However, I will look for these culprits. Unfortunate thing, betrayal. I will look, citizen colonel.’
The colonel looked confused, but then straightened his back. ‘Yours, captain, is a company in the battalion I command. There are six companies in a battalion, usually. All have captains. There are three battalions in the demi-brigade, each commanded by colonel like me and a general commands all colonels. One day, I wish to be that general, and you will be a colonel, above the other captains, if I say so. That magic does not happen if one disobeys orders. Now, I tell you to take these people out and we will be done with this. You are risking a lot, your formerly noble life, your rank…’
The captain got up, and eyed the colonel, who seemed to slump like a sack of wheat. There was indeed a noble note in the captain’s voice, one of well rehearsed and even in bread cold disdain, and the colonel, evidently of humble beginnings, licked his lips as the junior officer started at him through the cigar smoke. ‘I hear that you have had a nasty fever, colonel? Yes. I can see why that would make you act like this. Rest, warm malt ale and thick chicken soup, that will heal you right up, colonel. As for the terrible culprits, I will look into it, colonel. Now, I have things to do. The cantiniére,’ he pointed at mother, ‘is to be left alone, until I have thoroughly gone over all the nuances into this name thing.’ He turned to mother. ‘Are you of this treasonous Baxa brood?’
‘Citizen Lefebvre,’ I said for her, dreading she could not lie, and the captain smiled at me.
‘Indeed. Have you ever been named Baxa?’ he asked.
‘No, sir. We have not,’ Henriette lied admirably after all. ‘We come from Paris, so perhaps that is…’
While the captain was taking our side, the mention of Paris made him look away in anger. He hesitated, swallowing his hate and I saw Marcel was praying. Paris. He obviously hated Paris. He was of former noble stock, so he might have a very good reason to hate Paris. Little by little, he sat down and then nodded, bone white. ‘Colonel. I will look into it. Dismissed.’
‘Dismissed?’ the colonel said, his voice trembling weakly. Then he shook in anger and turned to go. ’Tomorrow have your company ready. Early morning, captain.’ He tried to reassert his authority by having Henri salute him. The captain waved a lazy, dismissing hand his way.
Chambon went red from face and left in a huff. Outside, we heard Thierry’s voice rise angrily, Chambon speaking quickly and with a tremble in the voice, and I saw the captain put a pistol on the table, eyeing the doorway. After awhile, the voices went down. I decided the Republic had done strange things to the ranks and obedience in the army, but I thanked God for it and the captain who was nearly god like to me, that evening.
Silence reigned as he sat there, looking at us with his grey eyes. ‘While I do not mind snubbing fuckers like the Jacobin bastard and his sniveling culprits, just like the captain did before me, I have to ask. Paris? Is the story of you being Danton’s lover true, as well?’ Hi
s eyes smoldered at Henriette.
‘I have some coin, sir,’ Marcel said, his hand twitching in anger towards his bayonet. The captain saw it and grinned.
‘I am not corrupt, fool,’ he said as coldly as a noble can. ‘Why else do you think I still serve the army and France, when many of my brethren have gone to exile? Paris, the rabble of Paris? I know the clamoring women of Paris, and sans-culottes, all bent on disorder and blood. The fourth company has a captain like that, Manuel Voclain by name and a filthy mule by manners he is. He, our Thierry, and some four others are a constant reminder of Paris and shit for me. They are filthy trash, fomenting trouble, because their fucking Jacobin masters run the horror show in Paris, and they feel like small gods. They tried to force me to obey them, last month, on a billets issue. I had one idiotic man hung for disorderly conduct, fomenting trouble on their behalf. I, count d’Montepello will not have such women in the company. I used to have a wealthy house in Paris, did you know this? You, woman, answer?’ His face betrayed terrible anger, though I thought I saw a fleeting ghost of regret that broke his otherwise aggressive mask.
Henriette took a step forward, to the light. She was wistfully beautiful and brave, holding her head up, as she clasped her skirt. She bowed slightly, and the captain grimaced. ‘Don’t want to show me your tits, do you? That was not a bow to a count, woman. But I am sorry; I am just Citizen Henri now. I asked you about that dog, Danton. Did you, or did you not?’
Henriette shrugged, scared, I knew, but she kept her wits. ‘He saved us, when our…’
The captain threw his sword to the tent wall. ‘Leave. The girl stays.’ He pointed at me.
The caporal was slowly chewing on his paper, his eyes glinting, and Marcel did not move.
‘Leave, sergeant! I am no animal, but I will talk with her. When confronted by mischief, it is best to talk to culprits separately. Come in shooting, sergeant, in five minutes, if she is not out with her chastity.’
Reign of Fear: Story of French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars (Cantiniére Tales) Page 24