I looked on as the serried lines were forming. ‘Is this a battle formation?’
‘Yes! See, leader will stand on the right of the first of the three lines, Marcel on the second line after him, corporals will keep the lines at the ends and in the center and sides, and us useless bastards of officers, lieutenants and under-lieutenants, which we have none, will walk behind and make sure the bastards do not run. Few do and thank God for that for I am not sure what I could to stop them.’
‘What about the rest of the force?’ I asked, looking at Chambon on his horse, again discussing with the frenzied hussar, who was gesturing angrily towards the north. Chambon was apparently eating a bit of lunch, munching on something, uncaring of the hussar’s wild gestures.
Lieutenant Boulton grinned. ‘The hussar? He worries me,’ lieutenant said and clapped the wooden side of our trusted wagon. ‘This is coming along, in case we need to evacuate the wounded or carry some stiffs.’
‘Surely the colonel would not send us to die? This would break him, no?’ I asked, but I knew I was wrong. There were people who would appreciate officers who got unsavory nuisances like Henri killed, and someone would be grateful.
‘Yes,’ he said drily, as he saw my face. ‘You understand. It’s not even about you, girl, so don’t feel sorry, for Chambon has been culling officers in the battalion, and God, he hates Henri. Henri…’
‘The captain, you mean,’ I told him icily.
He looked taken back but grinned. ‘I see. Yes, the captain. Excuse me for thinking you might be on first name basis. Nasty rumors, these, but do not worry, for you saved the sergeant, and that weighs heavily on your favor, no matter what happened last night. Just stay clear of the captain’s table.’
I cursed involuntarily. Surely Henri had not told the lieutenant anything? ‘Nothing…’
Boulton twitched and jerked as he waved his hands, not wanting to discuss the matter, and I shut up as he continued. ‘Chambon is holding them back, which is shit stiffening scary,’ the lieutenant said, and then blushed. ‘I am sorry, I…’
‘I will survive,’ I told him, grinning.
‘I hope so,’ said the lieutenant grimly. Men were cursing on the third line as they formed along behind the two first lines. Laroche was struggling with the massive marmite, the cooking pot. The twins and Cleft were hoisting the stubby pickaxes and the well-used shovels of the company, and the gamelles, sacks of food were being distributed around. Newcomers had to learn their place, and they carried most of the extra items. Corporals were screaming and coaxing men to keep the lines, Henri was leading his horse away and gave it to a sergeant of another company. ‘The captain does not ride to war,’ said the officer, matter-of-factly.
‘Isn’t Henri easier to see on it?’ I asked. ‘Though his ego will make him apparent to all, no doubt, even should he fall into a drainage.’
‘What?’ he asked, bemused. ‘I thought you were not on first name basis with him? Yes, he would be easier to see on the horse, but he would rather lead the men than be the first to die.’ I glowered at him, but couldn’t help liking Boulton.
Henri observed the lines were ready and nodded, the drummer rapped his instrument expertly, the leather helmets bobbed and bicorns swayed and so we took off in three nearly horizontal lines. The hills around us were high, the men were nervous, and I saw Marcel steady some of the men with encouraging words. The lieutenant was swinging his sharp sword at the tall, wet grass and cursing the looming cliffs towering over us. Henri sent some reluctant men to left and right side of the road, to the higher ground. I noticed the frustrated hussar ride far to the right, whipping his horse furiously, leaving the encampment. Looking back, Chambon was sitting on his horse, but the battalion was not moving. ‘No use looking that way,’ lieutenant said. ‘Chambon is risking us intentionally. He cannot order the enemy to fillet us, but he is putting bait out there, and this bait is very lucrative, Jeanette. May I call you Jeanette? Never mind, for I shall anyway. This company is no friend to the Parisian sans-culottes trash and those people are in power, of course. We dislike them, present litter excluded, of course,’ he smiled and I slapped his hat off his head. He picked it up, but I saw Henri’s eyes flicker to the officer who went white from face. ‘Do not touch me, dear lady, for I think the captain is smitten by you.’
‘I assure you, the fool is not,’ I said with a huff.
‘All men are such fools, when confronted by such beauty,’ he said, flushing, keeping his eyes off me. ‘He is lying if he claims otherwise.’
I forgot our danger. I eyed Henri and wondered, for hurt pride looks for any words to mend itself, and Boulton gave me hope to battle what was tearing at my soul. If under all that snobbish bastardy, there was the man lieutenant thought there was, then why had he talked to me like he had? This thought bothered me, as we walked for a while in silence. Only the birds were singing, the melancholy drum rapping every now and then, men talking softly in the lines. I scowled as some ever-present mud was thrown on the lieutenant’s coat. He cursed, but it did not matter. It was everywhere. Dirt. The troops looked nasty, like beggars with muskets and then I looked at myself, for I was filthy, my hair was braided in a greasy mess, I had not properly washed my face in a week, and my clothes were a terrible heap of unsavory rags. Perhaps that was it. If I were prettier and cleaner, he would have, perhaps, been interested and loved me back? God, Marie, I was a fool.
We walked for an hour, the men on the hills running ahead, the men before us crumbling foully about the triple line formation in seemingly peaceful landscape, forcing most of them to walk outside the pleasant road. Some men called for column, but Henri ignored them, and lit another cigar, looking ahead resolutely.
The road came to a thinner area between two hills, and there was a house there with a roof missing.
‘Halt!’ the captain said, as we stood about. I saw mother look up to the hills. I heard something out of place, far out there, distantly echoing in the hills. I saw one French soldier on the hill waving his hands wildly.
Boulton cocked his head as he saw that. ‘Stay in the wagon.’
‘Why? Trouble?’ I asked, and that is when we got into trouble.
Few of the men pointed to our left and some to the right. Up on the lightly vegetated hillside, trumpets rang harshly, we saw clouds of billowing dust, heard mad horses neighing wildly, and then, we saw forests of tall, sharp lances appear, shimmering up in the air.
‘Jesus, Christ!’ the lieutenant said, as we witnessed the few men up there on our flanks fire their muskets at an enemy we could not see, but then, suddenly we saw and felt them. Dozens of Poles were kicking their fur saddled beasts forward, topping the hillsides, most holding the lances couched, their mustached faces smiling under their weird square shakos. The ground shook a bit, there were dozens, over a hundred savage enemies out there. ‘A squadron, full one,’ the lieutenant said in quaking terror, as the Poles rode down the few men who flung away their useless muskets. The riders were well versed in battle from the early years of their lives, being mostly of noble stock as Poles were, and we prayed aloud as the Frenchmen fell on expert stabs from the spears. Soon, they were moaning, some dying instantly to the horrible weapons. The horses milled briefly around the bodies, and then I saw the rittmeister who had accosted me earlier scream at his men, and pointed his sabre at us. A trumpet rang out, the enemy cheered.
‘Square, form a fucking square!’ Henri was screaming and I suddenly understood he had been screaming it since the enemy appeared.
‘Square!’ the lieutenant echoed weakly, so did the sergeants, and corporals joined them, pushing the bewildered company into action.
‘Where do we go?’ I asked him, my face white from fear.
‘The cart in the middle! Your mother must drive the wagon to the middle! It’s hopelessly small square, by God! Pray! That is half a division up there!’ the leader said desperately as he started to push men into action. I rushed to mother, who was guiding the wagon forward while cursing at the m
illing horsemen who were steering their fine horses to the gentle downhill, screaming uncannily, their horses gathering speed.
‘Hold fire, hold until at forty feet!’ Henri screamed, his square jaw set in desperate grin. ‘Curse the colonel, boys, and imagine it is the fat Chambon ambling down on a donkey, when you aim your muskets. Cannot miss, lads! Bayonets, quickly!’ They laughed darkly, pissing themselves as they were shuffling around us, pulling out their long bayonets. Their corporals were forming not a square, but an oblong around the wagon, where some men climbed, the better shots. The men were in double line around us, the first rank kneeling, and I grinned like a maniac at the confused twins, who were standing next to each other, large men amidst smaller ones, dumb but brave. I smiled sadly at Cleft who ignored me as he was praying and that made me pray for Laroche, who was shaking, hysterically checking the bayonet, kneeling on the first rank. Charles and Skins were on the wagon and Charles finally smiling at me, for the danger on one’s life is the great balancer of grudges and doubts. He shook his head at me, forlorn, hopeless, but brave. ‘Stay down, and if we die, just surrender. It won’t be pleasant, but you might live.’ Henriette nodded in agreement and tried to grab me, but I ignored her. The uhlans were now speeding downhill in neat lines, their horrid lances swaying as they leveled the tips towards us, and they would be trying to break our formation.
‘Jeanette!’ mother screamed. ‘Get down to the bottom of the wagon!’ I did not.
‘Hold!’ Henri shouted above the noise of the galloping horses. ‘We will fillet them, so stop shaking and shitting your pants! Ready!’
The rittmeister, I saw, was screaming as well. Looking back to the other hill, an officer, a wachtmeister, I later learned, was doing the same to the uhlans coming from the other side. Then, the horses reached the ground before us, some sixty feet away.
Some men fired, some hit their marks, for few horses fell, an uhlan screamed, but the rest held and kept coming. ‘Hold the fire!’ the officers and harried sergeants yelled. Henri had bitten through his cigar and I saw the lieutenant facing the other side, his sword in the air. The horses milled forward, the Poles screaming in terrified anger and undaunted determination, trumpet blew, spear tips glittered, and then, when the horses were so very close, Henri screamed. ‘Fire!’ And they fired.
Muskets belched, smoke and fire filled the air, and it looked like dozen horses stumbled, spilling men. I saw through the dust how other horses stumbled on the dead and injured horses, but suddenly countless uhlans were milling around us, probing us with their long lances, while the musket with bayonet was a very short spear. The men in the wagon were loading, their eyes filled with terror as the madly brave Poles charged the line, bending it, breaking it in places, horses falling on men, desperate men falling wounded by the lances and bayonets and the light infantry had no time to reload. We fought and died like savages. It was utter chaos.
A Pole was pulled down from the saddle, his lance stuck on a crying man’s belly, and another threw the lance at Breadcrumbs, who went down with a slashed leg, howling. Bayonets flashed at the horses, some that shied away, but the Poles were milling around us, thrusting, glittering, ferocious eyes anticipating the dream of cavalry; destruction of an enemy infantry unit.
I saw the rittmeister riding around the Poles, yelling at them to push in, and they did. Somehow, the men were still fighting all around the embattled wagon. The rittmeister saw my face, and surprised, smiled. I could not help but smile back. I pulled at Charles’s coat behind me in the wagon; he was just done loading, and his mad eyes scanned me under his leather helmet. ‘That is the officer,’ I said, pointing at the Pole. Charles nodded, aimed carefully, but then many of the uhlans pulled pistols, and shot. At least ten light infantrymen went down, the horses pushed thought the holes and their riders pulled sabers, and we would have died, had it not been for the 7th Hussar Regiment, of which a squadron sprang to our help.
A trumpet rang, urgently, violently and we heard yells, and some words were in French. The Poles turned from their near finished kill and looked up to the hillsides, astonished at the appearance of the mad hussars. I saw them; milling down the hill, horses churning dirt, mustached faces grinning savagely.
A hussar, Marie, is a creature created to rend the heart of a woman. When an infantryman is ragged, carries his haphazard equipment around him like a foul, deadly tramp, a hussar is a glorious sight. Today, these were men in the business of killing, making them fey to look at and their fancy clothing even more excellent, like that of the knights of old. They say the Hungarians wore the fanciful uniforms formerly, being light cavalrymen with tight pants, high boots, brilliant coats, sabertaches finely made, tall, bizarre shakos or bearskins; they were the bravest of the brave. The French version was no less so. They were born brave. At least they claimed so, but I know no men in the army fought more duels than the hussars did. Their entire splendor buried the fact that they were small men likely to die young.
The green dressed Poles tried to create a defensive line, pulling their discarded lances from the ground, some jumping down to fetch them. The hussars were fast, though. Sabers in the air, the third squadron of 7th Hussars sprang down, yelling like devils in flames. The rittmeister of the uhlans was screaming at the Poles, but they were tightly packed, and had hard time turning to fight the enemy, and Henri shouted at his thirty, bleeding men to fight. I grabbed a gun from a fallen man, and started to load it, so did Henriette, for we had hope.
Then the hussars hit the Poles, some dying to uhlan pistols shots, one speared through the belly by a lance, but when those small men got close to the uhlans, the butchery began. I saw swift sabers spring up, and come down like lightning, stabbing with the point, and many saddles were emptied. I saw a desperate officer of the uhlans draw some twenty men together to charge back, and I fired the musket at the man. He slumped on his saddle; I saw that before I fell to the bloody mud by the surprisingly strong blast. By the time I got up, Henri and his wild men were hammering and stabbing at some fleeing uhlans, which the hussars promptly chased.
We cheered ourselves hoarse. I hurt while cheering, for I had hit my head on a stone. Looking around, I saw terrible carnage. Dozens of bodies, many unmoving were strewn about, and there were guts and blood all over the ground. Horses were neighing in pain, men were crying pitifully and screaming in incomprehensible pain and I smelled piss and shit, and saw a young uhlan vomit blood under the wagon. I got up, and cried, for Boulton was wounded to chest, gasping while trying to draw breath, and the twins were dead, lying almost peacefully next to each other, both apparently shot and I mourned silently as the men began to drag our helpless wounded aside. Henriette pulled at me, her face grave. She made a quick check on my head and smiled happily as I was going to survive. Then she sobered. ‘Marcel says we must loot the bodies and help the wounded. So, pull yourself together, girl. I will look to the poor wounded; you loot. Take this pistol. Some of the Poles are alive, and might want to take someone with them. Money, jewelry and things we can sell. Pipes and tobacco, especially. Find them and take care, love.’
I nodded, took the pistol, and cocked it. I made my way to nearest corpse unoccupied by French looters, and began to pull at the clothes of the corpse. But it was not a corpse yet. The man was alive. He was groaning weakly and I gulped, getting up. ‘Jeanette!’ Henriette yelled, observing me. ‘No time to be queasy!’ Shrugging apologetically, I rifled through his few pockets. His eyes glinted in helpless anger and hopeless fear and I kept telling him I was sorry. I left him and took to the gory corpses, the ones obviously dead and from them, I took good boots, small weapons, few fine watches, strong drink, and some coin. At first, I felt dirty and angry, but soon, it became routine. Laroche suddenly crouched before me. ‘The seams. Always look at the seams. They hide coin there. And hats. These men carry their retirement fund with them. They hide it. No different from a travelling peasant. Here.’ He took hold of a wounded horse and grunted as he searched the saddle while the horse was strugglin
g to get away. He took a knife and opened a suspicious seam of a saddle, producing some coins and a pearl. ‘I will keep these, but I took many pipes and a lot of Spanish tobacco to the wagon. I will teach Charles to help, if he doesn’t already know. Right is….’
‘I know,’ I said, feeling miserable. I looked at their pallid faces and felt sorry for them. They had family, perhaps, somewhere.
‘Hard life this, Jeanette’ Laroche said, and patted my back. ‘I know you can do it. Be careful with them. Some will fight this, some think they are still in battle.’ Laroche was apparently happy to have survived and his sarcasm and nasty nature was momentarily subdued.
‘Thanks,’ I told him and pulled off a pair of boots and carried them to the already crowded wagon. In the distance the hussars were still chasing after the uhlans, save for some who chased after the horses, and others still joined us to loot. I got up, and saw the wachtmeister I had shot lying not far, his leg still caught on the stirrup, the horse glancing around lazily, making small sounds of confused displeasure. I walked over, hardened at the horror and pulled the foot off the stirrup, and started to rummage the body. I saw Cleft pray over a man’s corpse and I saw Henri pulling at a wounded uhlan, leaving him with some kind words, the man laying on his side. Henri’s mauled cigar was still in his mouth.
I was startled as a man laughed gaily near me. I grabbed the pistol, but it was a hussar.
I looked up to see a man so handsome, that my breath stopped. Now Henri, with his grey eyes and arrogant looks had swept my breath away and I had also been smitten by his nonchalant bravery and apparent gallantry. This man, Marie, his red hair hanging low behind his back, was gorgeous to look at. He had cadenettes, thin braids on both sides of his face, which was smothered in enemy blood. He was not tall, no hussar was, but his chest was broad, his strong legs bulged under the tight, embroidered pants, and his uniform was silvery glitter of bloody buttons and finery. He had no hat, and his head was bleeding. He looked like a god of war, his face carved from stone, his smile an ironic, beautiful grin, his eyes mocking and flirting, blue as the sky. ‘You a local?’ He asked in Italian, I understood that much. I shook my head, unable to speak. ‘French?’ He asked, jumping down, agile like an animal, crouching next to me, rifling the man’s jacket, and looking for the finery.
Reign of Fear: Story of French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars (Cantiniére Tales) Page 30