by A L Berridge
I felt a great wave of panic, but the Chevalier said quickly ‘Infantry’s fine,’ and explained our horses were only for baggage.
The enseign brightened. He was perhaps fourteen, with a freckled face and squeaky voice, and I guessed he was simply new to his job. ‘Oh, jolly good then,’ he said. ‘But we can’t have whores, the capitaine’s very particular about that.’
André’s hand pressed tighter round my arm, but Grimauld said ‘No, this is his wife, see. Proper lawful wife. By the Church.’
The enseign’s face cleared. ‘Oh, jolly good, I know we’re short. Now let’s see, we’ll need to find the caporal.’ He looked vaguely about him.
I heard shouting behind, and risked a quick glance back. It was only some vagabonds escaping into the crowds, yet I saw now the buff coats of the Roye militia approaching the square itself, and knew we were out of time. The enseign began to lead us towards a man waiting by the Hôtel de Ville, but we had not even reached him when I heard a shout of ‘Try the square!’ and the sound of marching feet.
The caporal seemed to feel even less urgency than his officer. He was a great, tall man with a little scar on his cheek, lounging against the wall with an air of great boredom, his legs thrust out quite careless of who they might trip. His beard was rough, his appearance unkempt, and he was cleaning his nails with the tip of a broad, jagged knife.
‘Look, Ravel,’ said the enseign importantly. ‘Our first recruits! Can I leave them with you?’
The big man sighed. ‘I expect so.’ He waited for the enseign to turn away, then uncoiled himself from the wall, straightened, and looked at us.
His eyes rested on me a moment, the look of a man who knows exactly what to do with a woman and wishes her to know it. He smiled slightly, then slid his gaze to Grimauld, took in the sight of an ex-soldier and gave a short nod of recognition. Then he looked at André.
His expression did not change, Monsieur, it seemed almost to fix exactly as it was. Perhaps the lines about his mouth deepened a little, I could not say, but when his lips finally spoke, it was only to say the single word ‘Fuck.’
The Chevalier looked back at him, and to my astonishment there was a brightness in his eyes I had not seen for many days.
‘Hullo, Stefan,’ he said, and smiled.
Thirteen
Stefan Ravel
From his interviews with the Abbé Fleuriot, 1669
What the fuck did you think I’d been doing? Knitting?
Strange as it seems, M. l’Abbé, I’d somehow managed to reach the giddy rank of caporal all by my disreputable self. The fact all our NCOs got blown to fuck at Arras may have had something to do with it, but that’s the grand truth of the army and you may as well learn it now. Talent will out in the end, as long as your entrails don’t get there first.
Mine wasn’t the only unit shredded at Arras. New regiments were formed every week: the Lermont, the Montecler, Lannoy, more than some of our new officers could count. The same old faces, though, and it was my old sergeant from La Mothe who recruited me into the brand new Aubéry when it was settling into winter quarters in Roye.
Oh, I’d had a comfortable enough time, lounging around waiting for our officers to prise themselves out of the Paris salons, but that was all over and done with now. It was May and a war to be fought, even if it wasn’t the one we’d been expecting. We should have been gone a week ago to the siege of Aire, but no, our bastard lieutenant had arrived with new orders, and they were enough to make any man think. Rebellion was brewing in the Sedan, and we were to march every recruit we could find to the muster at Rethel.
That’s what it was about those days, Abbé, more men. The civilians weren’t exactly falling over themselves to join our little party, and we were peering under any stone we could find. We were taking them off the fields and waylaying them in the cabarets, one company marched into a church at Mass and took the whole congregation. None of it was enough. So there we were on our last day making one final appeal to the reluctant manhood of Roye, and who should turn up but André de Roland himself.
Well, now. Young André. Sorry to disappoint you, Abbé, but I hadn’t given him a lot of thought that last year. Oh yes, I’d heard all about his little fall from grace, but can’t say I was bothered. The last time I’d seen him he’d refused to shoot an enemy soldier who was trying to kill me, and oddly enough that wasn’t a decision I agreed with.
And now here he was in front of me, a year and a beard older, maybe a little sadder and wiser, but still the same André, utterly confident that good old Stefan would rush to his rescue. Oh yes, I saw the militia striding purposefully across the square, I knew the kid was up against it, and you know what? That suited me just fine.
I spread my legs, folded my arms, and said ‘Trouble?’
He didn’t blink. ‘Yes.’
‘Need my help, do you?’
A muscle twitched in his cheek. ‘Yes.’
The militia sergeant was walking over. I leaned against the wall and said ‘Give me one good reason why I should help you.’
‘There isn’t one,’ he said truthfully. ‘I’m asking anyway.’
I said ‘I asked you once – remember?’
He said ‘I haven’t forgotten any of it, Stefan. Have you?’
He had balls, that boy. The sergeant was up to us, the scrawny companion was edging furtively away, but André never took his eyes from mine. I broke the look firmly, but then noticed a little something else that gave me pause. That was a nice coat he was wearing, belted up tight round his waist, but there didn’t seem to be any buttons on it, and all I could see at the neck was a little triangle of brown chest. André, Chevalier de Roland, didn’t seem to own so much as a shirt.
I shoved myself away from the wall. ‘Hullo, Coullart, what’s up?’
‘Horse thieves,’ the sergeant said bluntly. He was possibly the dullest militiaman in Picardie, which is quite an achievement in its way. ‘Suspected, anyway, they tried to sell one at Prédelet’s place. Could be that beast there, mind if I look?’
I recognized it at once. They called it Tonnerre, it was the one Jacques used to ride.
I said ‘Come off it, man, that’s a regimental animal. If one of our officers needs to flog his own horse is that something we want to stick our noses in?’
Coullart’s face went blank. ‘Prédelet reckoned it was the Chevalier de Roland’s. He saw the crest.’
Only André de Roland would try to sell a horse on the quiet and leave his fucking name on it. I said ‘Their property was confiscated, wasn’t it? Why shouldn’t my officer buy it?’
I could see his sluggish brain churning. ‘It’s definitely his then? And these are your men?’
I let my eyes linger on André a moment. He was standing quite still, head up, and his eyes steady on my face.
I said ‘Definitely.’
Bernadette Fournier
He did it, Monsieur. The militiaman walked clear away, and we were safe.
André moved at once to his friend. ‘Stefan, thank you, that was –’
‘When you’re spoken to, soldier,’ said M. Ravel, brushing brusquely past him. ‘Now against the wall, the pair of you, I need to see you’re fit to serve.’
The hurt in André’s face was quite terrible. I was confused myself, for was this not the Stefan Ravel he had told us of so often and admired so greatly? Yet there was no affection in his manner, and when he examined André he did it with the detachment a man uses when he values a horse. He tested the strength of his arms, made him bend and stand, looked in his mouth, then said dismissively ‘Good enough,’ and turned to Grimauld.
Grimauld was apprehensive, Monsieur, and I understood why, for it was I who had seen to his dressing this last month. He said ‘I’ve served before, caporal, I’m all right.’
‘Graveyards are full of men who’ve served before,’ said M. Ravel. ‘What’s under the dressing?’
Grimauld twisted his neck uneasily. ‘Ah, it’s just a clean cut, see, healing n
icely, you won’t get no surgeon’s bills off of me.’
‘Fuck the bills, man,’ said M. Ravel, backing him against the wall. ‘You think I want to pay recruitment money to someone who’ll drop dead of gangrene in a month? Get your hands out the way.’
He was very much man, Stefan Ravel, and Grimauld could only stand helplessly as the caporal pushed the hair off his shoulders to examine the wound. And there they were, Monsieur, his ears exposed, each harshly slit through the lobes.
M. Ravel regarded him with contempt. ‘What was it – stealing?’
‘No call for that, caporal,’ said Grimauld, and his bony hands were clenching at his sides. ‘No fucking call. You weren’t there, see, you don’t know.’
‘I know,’ said M. Ravel. ‘I know what robbing your comrades means, and we don’t mutilate for that in this regiment, we hang.’ He swung round again on André and for the first time I heard anger in his voice. ‘For Christ’s sake, look what you’ve taken up with. How much money has he had off you?’
‘None,’ said André, as calmly and coldly as if he had known all along. ‘This man is my friend, and the wound in his neck came from protecting my back.’
They stared at each other a moment, then M. Ravel said ‘Well, let’s hope he never wants the same favour in return.’
I understood then we had a grudge to deal with, but at least the outburst seemed to curb M. Ravel’s anger. He said no more about Grimauld’s past, informed the men they were now musketeers in the Aubéry Regiment, and led them into the Hôtel de Ville to receive their recruitment bounty. It was to be twenty whole livres each, Monsieur, I could buy a new shirt for the Chevalier and food for many days, we could even send a letter to Paris to reassure Jacques. I thought of these things as I waited in the sun, and felt hopeful we might at last put the feeling of being hunted behind us and enjoy a little respite from our troubles.
Then they came out and I saw André’s face. I said quickly ‘What is it?’
He glanced around him. ‘We’re marching tomorrow against the Sedan.’
I said ‘Are not these the people you most wish to fight?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘But our commanding officer arrives this afternoon. They say it’s a Capitaine Desmoulins.’
Stefan Ravel
Oh, you know me, Abbé, always ready to give an officer the benefit of the doubt. This one invited the senior men to his room and even gave us wine, which was at least a promising start. What I couldn’t work out was why he was doing it, since he spent the whole time lounging disdainfully on his desk, wafting a vinegar-laden handkerchief against the stench of common soldiers. I watched him, Abbé, I saw him scrutinizing each of us in turn, and wondered what he was really after.
He only had five of us to work on, the company being dismally under strength. There was a second caporal, Charpentier, a handsome, well-set-up brute on the outside, but with an ugly habit of pressing his attentions on those who couldn’t fight back. I found a new recruit crying his eyes out one morning and gathered Charpentier had had him his first night. Well, I don’t like to bother authority with these things, I just took Charpentier out to the privy and stuck his head down the hole to acquaint himself better with his own kind.
We’d a good sergeant, though, my old friend Jean Sury from La Mothe. Oh, he wouldn’t have appealed to you, Abbé, he’d been in the Croquants’ Rebellion and was as hot against injustice as I was myself, but he was a good soldier, solid as Burgundy stone. It was Sury who’d pleaded with my old capitaine against the running-the-gauntlet that day, and if he’d had his way my brother would have still been alive.
Then there were what you’d call the proper officers. Poor Michaud couldn’t do his boots up without help, but I’d a soft spot for the kid all the same. You go on the racolage, you say ‘Yes, this is for cavalry,’ and by the time they find the nearest they’re getting to a horse is to march through its shit it’s all a little late. I heard Michaud telling recruits ‘Sorry, this is for infantry,’ and something inside that leathery thing I call a heart grew that little touch warmer.
Our revered lieutenant was enough to shrivel it entirely. I’d like to be charitable about Fauvel, given how things turned out, so I’ll just mention he was a cousin of Desmoulins and a first-class bastard. There were only two goals in Fauvel’s life, licking the arses of the men above him and kicking the shit out of the ones below him. He’d a curiously flat face, as if someone had had the sense to smash it against a paving slab where it belonged. Even his eyes were flat, like a lizard’s.
It wasn’t much of a staff for our new capitaine, us and twenty-four men out of a company that ought to have numbered fifty-five, but Desmoulins didn’t seem bothered.
‘It’s not the quantity that matters,’ he said, pressing his handkerchief to his nose in defence against our quality. ‘We shall still show the enemy our mettle. Are the men properly dressed?’
‘Of course, M’sieur,’ said Fauvel.
‘No, M’sieur,’ said Sury at the same time.
There was a lovely little silence. I took advantage of it to grab another goblet of wine.
Sury said ‘Some are in rags. We’re sending men out to face the enemy half-naked.’
Desmoulins stretched out his elegant legs and admired his spurs. ‘Not any more. I’ve arranged for a clothing issue this evening, along with boots for every man who needs them.’
Now that did get my attention. Infantry wore clogs back then, Abbé, but having a reprehensible desire to arrive at our destinations uncrippled, most of us grabbed boots wherever we could get them. A little thing like that could make Desmoulins the most popular officer I’d ever known.
‘The whole regiment’s to have them,’ he said, snapping his fingers for more wine. ‘The coats are the same colour, of course, to save money on the cloth, but that has its advantages. We’ll need a lot of esprit de corps in this regiment if it’s to fight fellow Frenchmen.’
‘Damned Sedanaise,’ said Charpentier. ‘The men won’t mind fighting them.’
Desmoulins looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘M. le Comte de Soissons is a prince of the blood. It will be difficult for a true Frenchman to regard him as the enemy.’
Michaud said hesitantly ‘But then what’s it –?’ He caught Fauvel’s eye and stopped.
‘What’s it about?’ said Desmoulins. ‘A fair question, enseign. Monsieur le Comte is concerned with the burden of taxes on our people. He desires the removal of Cardinal Richelieu and an honourable end to the war.’
The silence this time was even more interesting. I thought ‘Fuck it,’ had another slug of wine and said ‘Sounds reasonable.’
Fauvel spun round with the nearest I’d seen him come to passion. ‘Treason,’ he hissed, spraying my cheek with spittle. ‘That’s treason.’
Desmoulins regarded him with distaste. ‘Oh, come, Fauvel, our nation is known for independent thinkers, is it not?’
Fauvel’s eyes almost bulged out of flatness. He was probably struggling with the concept of independent thought. ‘Of course, M’sieur, but –’
‘Oh yes, yes,’ said Desmoulins, flapping his handkerchief. ‘Duty must come first. His Majesty does not agree with Monsieur le Comte, and so – we fight.’ He smiled disarmingly, and offered us more wine.
Fauvel cornered me as soon as Desmoulins looked the other way. ‘I’ll not forget that, Ravel,’ he said, breathing hot in my ear. ‘I’ll be on your shoulder every day after this.’
It was an unattractive prospect, but fortunately Desmoulins turned again and said ‘Ah, Fauvel, it occurs to me, should we not have two sergeants in this company?’
‘Absolutely, M’sieur,’ said Fauvel, snapping his neck back up to attention so fast he nearly broke it. ‘But our strength is so low …’
‘That discipline is the more important,’ said Desmoulins. ‘I believe Ravel is the senior caporal, is that right? Let’s make him up, shall we, and see how it goes.’
A sergeant’s pay isn’t to be sniffed at, Abbé, and ne
ither was the chance to stick two fingers up to Fauvel. I took both, and was understandably feeling a little pleased with myself when I strolled back to my quarters that evening. André was waiting for me, as I’d known he would be, but I said ‘Later, soldier,’ and walked straight past.
There’s little more depressing than a field company’s last night in quarters. Everything was already bundled up to go, nothing left but bare palliasses and miserable NCOs eating their last hot food for God knows how long. We messed together in our room, it stretched our supplies out longer, so I took my mug and helped myself to soup from the pot.
‘Man outside to see you,’ said Bonnier, our anspessade. ‘Been there quite a while.’
‘Has he?’ I said, and took a drink of soup.
‘Oh, don’t be such a bastard, Ravel,’ he said. ‘It’s one of the new lot, name of Thibault. He didn’t think I could help.’
I thought I’d helped him quite enough already, but didn’t want anyone to start wondering why only Ravel would do. I said ‘All right, all right,’ and headed for the door.
André was still waiting and looking pleasingly pissed off, so I took another sip from my mug and said ‘Go ahead, Thibault.’
He said ‘I want to thank you for what you did today.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. I’ve met your capitaine before, and it’s possible he might recognize me.’
I laughed. ‘Not with that beard.’
He looked at me. ‘You did.’
I straightened to go. ‘Our capitaine isn’t likely to get within sniffing distance of a recruit, you’re safe enough there. Just don’t make yourself conspicuous, all right?’
‘Of course,’ he said, offended. ‘But there’s more to it than that.’
He was obviously going to haunt me till he got it off his chest, so I stood and drank soup and let him tell me the whole thing. It was a disturbing little story, especially in view of what Desmoulins had said about Soissons, but it didn’t seem enough to worry about.