Duval at Waterloo

by Michele McGrath

  I closed Lefebvre’s eyes, straightened his body and went to find a shovel. The windmill and the surrounding area were full of men, with messengers arriving and departing. They did so unwatched. The assassin had been caught and we did not need to fear treason within the ranks any longer, but at a dreadful cost, to me at least. The Emperor stood some distance away at the edge of the bluff, surrounded by his staff, watching the battle and issuing his orders. No one noticed me as I went into the mill and climbed to the upper floor, where the millwheels were situated. I reasoned that there must be shovels there, to move the grain. I found a couple lying against one of the walls, with some empty sacks. I took one and a couple of sacks for good measure. Then I returned to the wood.

  I picked a spot underneath a big ash tree and started to dig. Fortunately, the soil proved easy to break, in spite of the roots, and Lefebvre was not a tall man. I dug deep enough to keep the animals and birds at bay. I did not try to stop the tears running down my face as I laboured. They almost blinded me. I had performed such tasks before when I lost other friends to violence. I’d buried Pierre, many years ago, when the battle ended and I managed to find his body amid all the carnage. There were others, but none of them had ever been as close to me as Lefebvre.

  When the grave was dug, I laid one of the sacks in it, placed Lefebvre on top and covered him with the other sack. Then I filled the hole and stamped the surface down. I took out my knife and carved his name and the date onto the bark of the tree sheltering him, as he had done for Nathan. Then I tried to say the prayer for the dead, which I remembered from my childhood and my mother’s funeral.

  “De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine;

  Domine, exaudi vocem meam. Fiant aures tuæ intendentes

  in vocem deprecationis meæ.

  Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine, Domine, quis sustinebit?

  Quia apud te propitiatio est; et propter legem tuam sustinui te, Domine…”

  The words choked me and I could not complete the psalm. I muttered, “Lord, in your mercy, look after Jean Lefebvre, a good man and my friend.”

  Then I turned away, picked up my shovel and returned it to the windmill, hoping that its next task would not be so grim.

  As I came down the stairs, I saw Lebrun, of all people, leaving the mill.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you’d be on your way back in Paris by now.”

  I stared at him.

  “What is it? What are you staring at?” The aggression came back into his voice.

  “I’ve just been burying my best friend. He was killed by a traitor trying to assassinate the Emperor.”

  The man nodded. “I’d heard. I didn’t know Rolland-Couteau well, but I would never have expected this of him. Were you the one who caught him?” I nodded. “I wondered about you and your friend. You asked too many questions. Police?”

  “Yes.”

  His face tightened. “And you had the nerve to suspect me?” He advanced towards me, menacingly. In my normal mind I would unhesitatingly have retreated, but at that moment I did not care.

  “We knew the man was in the Maison and for several reasons we thought he would use a rifle. You are an exceedingly fine shot and fit the description…”

  Unexpectedly the man stopped and laughed. “My father used to say my liking for guns would be my downfall. He was almost right. At another time I’d make you pay for your suspicion of me but I’ve got better things to do now than puncture you.” He turned on his heel and would have left but I stopped him.

  “Stay, please. The Emperor dismissed us but I can’t leave now.” As I said the words, I realised what I must do. Paris and even Grenoble would have to wait. France was under attack. I was a former soldier and I hadn’t lost all my skill, even if I was slower than I used to be. I had the sudden feeling that, in this campaign, every man would count.

  “So?”

  “Do you know where the Second Brigade of First Corps is?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “My former colonel offered me my old job back and I’m going to take him up on his offer.”

  He stared at me and then he grinned.

  “You’re quite mad, mon ami, fancy joining up in the middle of a battle! Well, it’ll save me the trouble of teaching you a lesson myself. I’ll show you where they were but they’ll have moved by now, of course.”

  We went outside to a spot where we could see through the drifting smoke. Lebrun pointed.

  “Over there, on that slope, or they were this morning. Good luck finding them. Wait a minute.” He took off his aide’s sash and wrapped it round my waist.

  “Don’t you need it?” I asked.

  “I’ve others in my saddlebags. If you ride through the army in civilian clothes, they’ll likely take you for a god-be-damned German or even worse, an Englishman.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I owe you when we meet again.”

  “If we both survive, I’ll find you, never fear.”

  We shook hands and I turned away. I never paid my debt to him; I never even saw him again. He is probably lying somewhere in that bloody valley near Brussels.

  I went to the horse-lines and found a horse. The beast was tacked and had a cavalry sabre attached to his saddle. No one challenged me as I took him. Perhaps the adjutant’s sash prevented it or his groom did not notice the horse’s absence until we were long gone. I rode off to the rear of the windmill, intending to circle round the fighting. I wanted to reach the spot Lebrun pointed out or some of the Second Brigade troops, preferably the latter.

  Luck did not favour me until the very end of that day. I seemed to ride for hours, sometimes alone, sometimes in the midst of the fighting. My sabre was blooded by then and I killed more than one man, but I never found my regiment. I asked everyone who would speak to me,

  “The 55e regiment du ligne. Do you know where they are?”

  No one did and I rode on. Even though it was June, evening was falling and the land was shadowed. A few campfires started to twinkle. The fighting ceased and the battle they would later call Ligny had been won. Tired and bloody troops camped for the night. I stopped at one of the fires and asked my question again, intending to stay with them if I got a negative reply. I desperately needed warmth and companionship. One of the men pointed.

  “Over there, on the left of us. Near the top of that small hill.”

  “When did you see them?” I asked.

  “A couple of hours ago. They were making camp, so they should still be there.”

  I thanked the man and, taking my tired horse by the reins, I led him in that direction. I found the 55e. A man came out of the Colonel’s tent as I arrived. He peered at me.

  “Duval, is it you? No it can’t be, you must be a ghost.”

  “No ghost, Mourier. Good to see you again and in one piece.”

  “What are you doing here, mon brave?”

  “The Colonel offered me my old job back when I met him in Paris. I’m going to take him up on his offer.”

  “Are you? Well you were always crazy, you haven’t changed, that’s for sure. Au revoir.”

  The Colonel looked happy to see me but a bit startled at my sudden appearance and the adjutant’s sash around my waist. I told him a little of my story and that I had been released from my other duties. I asked him if I could rejoin the regiment.

  “Certainly, we lost several good men today and your offer is timely, if you are sure?” he asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  “We have no time to train you in the middle of a campaign. You will have to take your chance.”

  “I’m prepared for that.”

  He nodded. “You can take poor Romer’s place. He was a lieutenant so it’s a promotion for you and a better pension, if you live to profit from it.” He smiled tiredly. “And if my journal survives to confirm your appointment, of course. Mourier can kit you out so you look like one of us and not a ruffian.”

  I glanced down at my attire, still dishevelled and
bloody from the fighting. “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Not sure you have anything to thank me for. This campaign is going to be hard.”

  “We won today, though didn’t we?”

  “We did.” The Colonel shook his head. “This is only the first battle and the English did not arrive. They’ll join with the Prussians as soon as the can, if they’ve any sense. The result may be different next time if they combine.”

  “The Emperor must know this.”

  “He does and he’s said to be confident enough but…”

  “But?” I prompted him.

  “The Emperor has never faced Wellington before. Wellington’s defeated the other Marshals who fought him. He’s good. The fight might go either way.”

  “You think he will beat the Emperor?” The thought had crossed my mind, but to have my doubts echoed by a man I respected sent a cold shiver up my spine.

  “It hangs on a knife edge. Whoever has luck on the day will win. That’s why I say you shouldn’t thank me for letting you rejoin. I’m probably sending you to your death.”

  “You’ve done that before, Sir, and I’ve survived. Why shouldn’t we have more luck than the other side?”

  “Indeed.” The Colonel rose and held out his hand to me. “Welcome back, my boy. If we both survive we’ll toast your decision in my special brandy when everything is over.”

  Chapter 10

  Capitaine Mourier, the Adudant-Major, duly saw me kitted out.

  “You can use Romer’s stuff. He won’t need it any more,” he said, throwing me a pair of saddlebags.

  Fortunately Romer was a bit bigger than me so I didn’t have to squeeze myself into his spare uniform. The material felt harsh on me, though, and I instinctively stiffened my back. If I stayed in the army long enough, I’d soon be strutting round like the rest of them. Lefebvre would have laughed at that, I thought sadly. He used to call me ‘Soldier’, a term of affection. At least I now looked the part and no one would mistake me for a German or an Englishman any more. Whether I could live up to my new clothes was another story. I dared not let myself think of Eugénie and the children or I would weaken. I had the strange feeling that I must be true to Lefebvre, who gave his life for the Emperor. Nonsense, of course. Lefebvre had always been critical of Napoleon, and, as he said, he’d never had any intention of dying a hero’s death.

  I wondered if I would be able to do what I had chosen to do, without letting myself or my men down. I’d been in enough bloody battles, but I thought that this one would be my last, one way or the other. I’d been fit then, uninjured and quick on my feet. Another dangerous thought. Nevertheless I was committed now. I put my friends, family and my own safety out of my mind, as any soldier learns to do if they live through their first battle. I would have to concentrate on the job to be done or give up any chance of survival.

  We’d expected to fight the next day but it did not happen. The weather turned foul, a violent storm broke over us with torrents of rain turning the ground into a quagmire. The men were wet and exhausted from a series of long marches. As usual, the food supplies had not kept up with the front line troops.

  I dined with Mourier and a few of the other officers, strangers to me, under a piece of canvas tied between some trees. ‘Dined’ was a euphemism of course. We shared one chicken, stewed with a few vegetables that someone unearthed on the march and some hard bread. Yes, I was back in the army again. The company was good though and several people contributed a bottle of decent wine. As one of them said,

  “What’s the point of saving it? If we win, we’ll raid the enemies’ supplies and if we lose, they’ll drink ours.”

  Another officer came into the tent at that point.

  “Have you saved any for me, you greedy sods?” The sound of his voice brought me to my feet.

  “Darvy?”

  He turned abruptly and frowned at me.

  “Do I know you?”

  “You did once, a lifetime ago.” I laughed. “They called us the Three Musketeers – you and me and Pierre…”

  I didn’t get any further. He caught me up in his arms and hugged me. It was like being hugged by a bear and I almost lost my breath.

  “Well, rot my balls. Alain Duval! I thought you died.”

  The others looked on in amusement, as Mourier said,

  “This calls for a drink.”

  “A proper one,” Darvy said. “It’s not often you find an old friend out of the grave. There’s brandy in my kit. One of you fetch it while I find out what this rogue has been doing without me all these years.”

  The evening passed much more pleasantly than I expected. I’d lost one friend but I’d found another and we might all be dead tomorrow. We’d both changed, Darvy and I, but we remembered the good times and resolutely shut our minds to the future.

  I got little sleep, but perhaps it was just as well. My tiredness created a barrier to gloomy thoughts. The rain poured down all night, making us cold and stiff. It dripped off my shako as I went to meet the troops I would have to lead. Darvy went with me, a friendly gesture, to make sure they knew I was not just some jumped up favourite being foisted onto them. He introduced me to Sergeant Flobert, a grizzled veteran, who looked at me a bit askance, until Darvy said,

  “Don’t let his pretty-boy looks fool you, Sergeant. Duval’s a good fighter and a friend. He won’t let you down.”

  “No man can say better than that.” The sergeant saluted me and I returned his salute, feeling a bit foolish after all these years.

  “Thanks, Darvey.”

  We shook hands and he turned to go.

  “Meet you here after the battle,” I called to him.

  “Or in hell!”

  We spent the rest of the morning waiting, which tried my nerves and the nerves of everyone else there. The ground had become water-logged with last night’s downpour and the Emperor wanted it to dry out a little before we attacked. It would be heavy going. Muddy battles are the worst. They slow you down and make it harder to avoid your enemies or to come to grips with them.

  Eventually, around noon, the artillery opened up with a great roar, smashing towards the centre of the enemy’s army. The shells impacted throwing up mud and making smoke, so it was difficult to see after the first few salvoes. Whether they did any good was debatable. The pounding, though, made my heart beat faster and my mouth became dry. Not much longer now. I tried in vain to recapture the heedlessness of my youth, but I was no longer the same man. Suddenly I lost the will to kill or be killed. Then, thank God, my mind was distracted. Trumpets sounded and our wait ended.

  My regiment was sent to attack the English, who were drawn up across the road to Brussels. We pushed forward, meeting some resistance but finding a gap in the line. We ascended a slight rise, pushing the enemy back before us. My brigade formed part of the third line, but soon the formations became entangled and I remember the fighting as a series of flash-backs.

  A big Dutchman came at me with his bayonet pointed at my belly. Sergeant Flobert fired over my shoulder. The man dropped, his bayonet ripped open my waistcoat but barely cut my skin. Darvy screamed something to me that I did not understand and then ran forwards. Cavalry charged down upon us and swept past. A soldier, his sword embedded in the leg of one of our attackers, was carried along for several metres. Then the horseman chopped down and he fell, his head split open.

  The sounds were horrific. The bombardment lessened, but it still flew over us and shells dropped. We seemed to be trapped in a blacksmith’s shop with everyone hammering hard. Bullets cracked and the screams of the injured men and horses still ring in my ears, whenever I remember that day. At the time though, the din just added to my blood-lust. Such is the insane fury of battle.

  We were weakening. Our own horsemen attacked the British and they fought back. My part of the field was a whirling mass of cavalry and infantry. I did not hear any recall, but fewer of my men surrounded me. I remember calling to those few to follow me forwards. I was limping badly now and slow, but
still on my feet by some miracle. Something struck me in the top of the arm. My sword dropped from my hand. I stared at it stupidly and then suddenly blackness came.

  I awoke sometime in the night, groaning. The moon floated through the clouds, revealing horrible sights. I saw nothing but heaps of bodies, wherever I looked. The pain in my head was the worst I had ever experienced. I felt cold, stiff and thirsty. I fumbled around me for my canteen which was fortunately still attached to my belt. I remember I had some difficulty opening it one handed, for my left hand was useless. Those drops of stale water tasted like the finest wine I have ever drunk in my life. The throbbing lessened slightly and I began to examine my injuries. Then I must have faded away again and did not wake for some hours.

  Light pierced my eyes. I blinked them open and then wished that I hadn’t. I suddenly realised where I lay and the dawn’s clear light was unkind. Bodies of men and horses surrounded me, some of them still twitching and groaning. I groaned too as I groped for my canteen and drank the last of its contents. Water had been wonderful last night, but I needed brandy now. I sat up and began again to probe my injuries. A bullet had ploughed its way through the fleshy part of my upper arm from the back. It must have come a long way, though, and have been almost spent. The bullet was still in my shoulder, but visible, for it showed through the skin in front. It would be easy enough to withdraw but if I did so, the bleeding might be severe. I had already been incredible lucky, for, although I had lost blood from the entry wound, no major vessel could have been touched or I would have bled to death.

  I had a lump on the back of my skull as big as a goose’s egg. What hit me I never found out, but it had been enough to keep me unconscious for hours as the battle moved away from me. I had several cuts and grazes, an almighty headache and a bullet wound but I was still alive. Time to find out if I could move. I rolled over and pushed myself to my knees, my head dangling like a dog that has just been whipped. I stayed there for some time until I could make the next movement. Eventually I got a foot on the ground and, with a mighty effort, staggered to my feet. I swayed about like a drunkard, until part of my balance returned. I was now high enough to see over the bodies surrounding me. The sight was awful — a scene out of hell. The carnage seemed to go on for kilometres. I had not seen anything like it before in my life. The battles I had fought in previously were picnics compared to this one. A few figures stumbled through the morass, a soldier or two and a few women. God help them if they were looking for their loved ones, I thought. No one could find anyone in this charnel field.