by L. A. Meyer
"I am sorry, Sir, but—"
"Do not be sorry, Cadet," he says. "After all, it is war. We must all get dirty." He puts his hands behind him and walks around me. "So. We have been blessed with an American Cadet, then? We do not even have such a rank in the Grande Armée de la République. What shall you be, then? A private? A corporal? Surely not a sergeant, for your cheeks are too downy, like the soft belly of a goose."
I feel my cheeks flaming. "I will be whatever you want me to be, General Charpentier."
He considers me and then glances off to his right and says, "We shall see what you shall be. A messenger, for sure, but right this moment we have not the need for such. Look over there. Do you see that?"
I look over and see what seems to be a confused bunch of men and young boys. It is a squad of sorts, about a dozen men, and it looks like they have just been issued their uniforms, as they are ill fitted and look a mess.
"Yes, Sir, I see," I say.
"Do you know how to drill, Cadet Bouvier of the United States Militia?" asks the General. He flicks the ash off the end of his cigar such that it lands on my boot. "Do you know your right flank from your left? Forward March from Advance Columns to the Right? Do you know how to load and fire a musket? Do you?"
Again I answer, "I did not come here to be insulted, Sir!"
"Very well," replies General Charpentier. He points the wet and well-chewed end of his cigar at the group of men. "They are a gaggle of farm boys and shopkeepers newly arrived to fight for the glory of France. They are nothing but cannon fodder, and they are yours, Cadet Jacques Bouvier. Do what you can with them, and then we will see what you will be in this Army."
I take Mathilde over to a watering trough and let her drink her fill, tie her to a hitching post, and walk over to what I know, for better or worse, will be my men. Time to get started.
"Who is in charge here?" I ask, as I come upon them. Some of them sit on the ground, some wrestle with their gear, and some just stand there, looking around in awe at what is happening all about them.
A little round man, half bald with large round pop eyes, says, "I am Sergeant Gaston Boule. I raised this gallant band of warriors from our province of Burgundy to fight for Napoléon and for France!"
I notice that his uniform does not have any sergeant's stripes upon it.
"And I am Cadet Bouvier, and I am your new commanding officer. From now on, when I arrive in your presence, you will leap to your feet and stand at Attention. Is that understood?"
"But it is just a boy," says a tall young man with lanky brown hair hanging about his shoulders. "How—"
"Get to your feet now!" I shout, and whip out my sword and with its point, draw a line in the dirt. "Line up on that, you ignorant pack of yokels!"
The shambling pack manages to do it, but just barely.
"All of you are a disgrace. You there, trade jackets with that one. You! Do your shoes fit? Non? Then how the hell do you expect to march two hundred miles? Do you think we shall stop to massage your poor feet? No, what we will do is put you up against a tree and shoot your sorry ass for malingering, that's what we will do, count on it!"
I pause for breath. "What a pathetic gang of clowns ... To think I came all the way from America to command such rabble as this. Maggots! Scum! You, trade shakos with him! Don't you think it might be good if you actually could see to fire at the enemy rather than looking at the inside of your hat? The Prussian will certainly be able to see your stupid head in his sights! You, lace up your gaiters; you, pull up your goddamned pants! Try to look like a soldier! Try to look like a man! Damn it!"
They start trading parts of their uniforms and in a while they look halfway presentable. But just halfway. Night is about to fall and we'll get on with the rest of it tomorrow.
"Who's the youngest one here?"
"I am, Sir," pipes up a small voice belonging to a very tiny boy. "My name is Denis Dufour. I was going to be the drummer. See, I have a drum."
"Well, at least one of you came prepared," I growl. "Denis, you shall be my orderly. Unsaddle my horse, brush her down, and see that she is fed and cared for. Set up my tent right there, and the rest of you pitch your tents in a line in that direction. A straight line if you can manage it, and all facing the same way, for the love of God! Now get to it. Tomorrow we shall drill till you drop!"
"Uh, Sir," says my Sergeant Boule with a slight cough. "We do not have any tents."
Oh, Lord!
Chapter 30
The next morning, my eyes pop open to the sound of reveille blown on a hundred bugles and behold the whiteness of my tent above me. One moment to groan out the universal soldier's groan at having to get up at that ungodly hour of the day, and then I fling myself out of my bedroll and onto my feet. As I struggle into my uniform, I call out to my orderly, who had slept outside my tent as I had ordered. "Get me some wash water, Dufour."
"But, Sir..."
"Find it, boy! You are no longer a goatherd. You are a soldier in the Grand Army of the Republic on the march! You must learn how to do things. How to get things. You are on campaign. Do you think your mother is here with a glass of warm milk? I tell you she's not, unless she's one of those bawds back in that wagon that is painted red!"
I hear him scurrying off.
On with the stockings, then trousers, then boots. Damn close in here, no room to move around at all. All right, now on with the jacket, fasten up the frogs, and step outside into the bright light of the morning.
As I come out, I see Denis Dufour struggling toward me with a bucket of water, sloshing most of it over his feet, which I now note are quite bare. Judging from his voice, size, and clumsiness, I'd say that he's about ten years old. I also see the rest of my squad, groggily getting to their feet, having slept tentless in a small ravine out of the wind.
"You men of the Sixteenth! Go to the latrine and then come back and form up on the line I drew yesterday. Sergeant Boule!"
"Oui, M'sieur," says he, buttoning his pants. I am sure he has already availed himself of the bushes. I am equally certain that it was my men who had been set to digging the latrine before I arrived, so the rest of them are sure to know exactly where it is. And because of their assigned duty, I can figure out exactly how they are regarded by the others.
"Line up the men by height, shortest to tallest. Do you think you can manage that?"
"I will try, M'sieur," he says, putting his fingertips to his brow. I'll wager he wishes he were back in his village right now, and I don't blame him. I imagine that many of the men feel the same.
I have Denis place the pail behind my tent. I already have in my hand a piece of soap and the towel from my knapsack. Putting my towel on the ground, I kneel upon it so as not to get grass stains on my knees. I plunge my head into the bucket, run the soap over my head, scrub at it, then dunk my head again and run my fingers through my hair to rinse it. Afterward I wash my face, ears, and neck, then pick up the towel and stand to dry myself off.
"Here," I say, throwing the damp towel to him. "You may use the water to wash yourself, and I suggest that you do it, as you are filthy."
Poor lad, ain't even got a uniform yet, 'cause of his size. Well, we'll see...
"Then wash out the towel and hang it on the tent pole there to dry."
Grabbing a smaller wet rag, I head off into the bushes myself. Accomplishing that duty and donning my shako, I toss the rag into the bucket. "Wash that, too."
I go back to my squad and find them lined up as ordered.
Sergeant Boule pulls out his sword and puts the hilt to his mouth in some sort of semblance of presenting arms. I notice the sword is rusty and dull. Probably picked it up at a secondhand store. I return the salute with a flick of my hand to my shako's brim and look up the line. They are still barely presentable.
From what I hear, Gaston Boule, baker in the village of Pommard in the province of Burgundy, inspired by the might of the French Empire as personified by the Emperor Napoléon Bonaparte, decided to raise a company of b
oys and men from his little town and then march off to glory. Bored with country life, they chose to follow him. Fools. And here they are—tentless, bootless, and absolutely clueless—and all for me to take care of.
I go to the first man in line, the tallest. "Call off your names as I pass you," I order.
"Laurent," says the tall man with long lanky hair.
"Keep your eyes cased, looking straight forward when addressed by an officer. Do you understand, Laurent? Do you all understand?"
"Oui, M'sieur."
"Good. Remember it. And you?"
I take another step and come up before the next man. "Simon," he says. He is a large, broad man. Probably an ox driver back in his village.
Next is Vedel, then Gobin, then Bouchard, all unremarkable, except for their lack of military bearing. Lambert, Bertrand, Michaud, Pannetier call out next, followed by Dubois, Chaisson, and finally Guerrette. That makes twelve in the ranks, and with Sergeant Boule and the drummer boy, fourteen in all.
"Very well. Now we shall do some very basic maneuvers. The first is the state of Attention. Put your heels together like this and stand up straight—straight, I said, goddammit!—shoulders back, thumbs on the seams of your trousers!"
I walk the line, scanning them, poking a belly here, pushing back a shoulder there.
"All right. Now I—"
"Your pardon, Sir, but when are we going to eat?" asks Chaisson, a stout man who looks like he has not gone for very long without a meal.
I go up before him. "You shall get your breakfast, Chaisson, we shall all get our breakfasts, when we are able to march to the mess tent like soldiers and not like a shambling gang of convicts. Understand?"
He gulps and nods, his Adam's apple working up and down.
"Understand also that you are not to speak to an officer unless he speaks to you first," I say coldly.
I had noticed the mess tent for the Sixteenth Fusiliers down below, its stoves working and sending out great clouds of steam and very good smells. My own traitorous stomach growls, a sound that I am sure is not missed by the idiots who stand before me now.
"Good. Now the next position will be Parade Rest. When I say the word 'Rest' you will put your left foot thirty-one centimeters to the left and will clasp your hands behind your back, your right hand in the palm of your left. Are you ready? Very well ... Parade ... Rest!"
Feet shuffle out to the side and hands go to the back. Hmmm. That was not bad. So far, so good.
"Very well. We will now do a Right Face. Come back to Attention. Good. You will watch my feet. When I say Right Face!, you will pivot on your heels like this"—and I demonstrate—"and then bring those same heels back to the Attention position. Are you ready? Bon. Sixteenth Fusiliers, Bouvier Squad, Right Face!"
Half of the silly buggers turn left and half turn right. It is then that I realize we are being observed by the officers and men of some of the crack divisions quartered nearby, and they are laughing at us. My face burns. I hear for the first time Farm boys! Look at the farm boys! Clodhoppers! and I don't like it one bit.
But I decide to use it.
"You hear it? Clodhoppers? You see how they laugh at you?" I say in disgust. "Re-form yourselves and come to Attention. Good. Now hold out your hands. Put your right hand now above your head." The hands go up, some of them right, some left, but eventually they all get it right. "That is your right hand and below it is your right foot. Do you have that?"
There are nods all around.
"Now remember this. That is the hand you write with, or if you cannot write, the hand you make your X with."
More nods.
"Do you think you can keep them straight now?"
They sheepishly nod.
"Very well. Let us try it again. Clodhoppers, Right Face!"
This time they all get it right.
"Good enough," I say. "Now we will march to breakfast. When I say Forward March, you will step out on your left foot ... you do remember which one that is, don't you? All right, ready now ... Forward March!"
And they start out pretty much in step and march down the hill to the mess tent. At least they had been issued mess kits with their uniforms and so will be able to eat. There are men standing in a long line and my Clodhoppers go and get behind them.
Leaving them there, I go to present myself to General Charpentier. He is again at his table outside his tent as the day is warm. He is having his breakfast with another senior officer and it looks and smells awfully good. His aide-de-camp looks at me in question when I come up.
"Begging your pardon, Sir, but my men need some supplies. Where shall I get them?"
The officer looks to his General, who beckons me over to stand before him.
I salute and say, "Good morning, Sir."
"Um," he says, making a gesture with his hand that passes for a return salute. "What do you need?"
"My men do not have tents. Some of the men's uniforms do not fit. Others need proper shoes. The drummer boy needs a uniform."
He nods to his secretary, who sits at a small table nearby, and the scribe begins writing out the requisition. He is a civilian.
"...and muskets, Sir. My men do not have guns and they are supposed to be Fusiliers. We'll need cartridges, too, of course."
"We were afraid to give them guns, afraid they would blow their own fool heads off and save the Prussians the bother," says the Colonel, and the others laugh. "Maybe with le Grand Cadet Bouvier, the Scourge of Two Continents, now in charge, they can be trusted." More chuckles. I have always noticed how ready subordinates are to laugh at the jokes of their superiors. I do not smile, but merely stand there waiting.
General Charpentier again nods to the man scribbling away. "But just give them the muskets, not the powder."
Turning back to me, he says, "Show me they can do close-order drill, and the basic maneuvers, then we will see about the powder. We really do not want them killing any of our own, now, do we?"
"How many?" the secretary asks of me. I note the absence of the word Sir. Hmmmm.
"Thirteen men, one boy," I reply. No "Sir," only a frosty Look. After all, he is not a soldier. "And we need a drummer's uniform for the boy."
"We do, now?" The General's eyebrows have risen.
"I'm sure you want the Sixteenth Fusiliers to look its best, Sir, as, otherwise, it will reflect on you, mon General."
"You do have something of a mouth on you, Cadet Bouvier."
"Je suis désolé, Monsieur. I am sorry if I offended you, Sir."
"Ummm," he says, and turns to the civilian. "Will the Quartermaster have all he needs, Monsieur Dupont?"
"All except the tents, General," briskly answers Monsieur Dupont. "The supplier did not come in with them in time." He stops and gives a bit of a cough. "I happen to know some are for sale from the ... uh ... merchants who follow the camp."
Damned thieves, you mean. The supplier probably sold them to the highest bidder, contract with the Grande Armée or no contract. Entretiens d'argent—Money talks, in every language.
"Well, there you have it, Cadet. Let us see how you provide for your troops. Go now and do it."
I salute, do an about-face, and leave, steaming.
Going down to the Quartermaster's huge tent, I see my men still standing in line. What is this, then?
I go up to them and ask, "Why have you not yet been fed?"
"Pardon, Sir," says Sergeant Boule, sheepishly, "but others have been cutting in front of us. They say it is their right. We don't know what to do." I notice burning looks in the eyes of some of my plowboys.
My steam increases. "Their right, eh? Now what would you do if you were in your village and marauding soldiers came in to take your women, your girls? Eh? What would you do?" I hear some growls from the ranks. I want to go up to the first of the sneering bastards who cut in front, a Corporal of Grenadiers, and stick my shiv up his nostril and ask him how his mistress would like him if he comes back from this war with two noses, neither of them very pretty. But I don
't. Not yet.
"Steady, boys, your time will come. Stay here, be patient, and you will be fed. But your time will come. Count on it," I say, calming myself, and, I hope, them. "Sergeant, after the men have eaten, meet me at the Quartermaster's tent over there, and we will see them more properly fitted out. Try to assemble them in some order."
"Yes, Sir."
I stride over in the direction of that Quartermaster's tent, signed requisition form in hand, to see what can be done in that regard, when I hear some laughter, derisive guffaws, coming from a table set up in front of a large tent. There are four officers seated there, and I turn to see that they are all Grenadiers, Elite Infantry—a major, a captain, and two lieutenants. They were playing at cards and now they are all looking at me, and yes, they are laughing. I turn to face them.
The Major reclines back in his chair, a cigar clamped in his mouth. I note that, in spite of various blockades and embargoes, nobody around here seems to lack a supply of that vile weed.
"Can you smell manure, Montrose?" asks the Major.
"Indeed I can, Major Levesque," replies one of the lieutenants. "It seems to be coming from that pack of farmers over there."
I know my men can hear this. A glance back shows their heads drooping in shame. This is not what they had signed up for.
I also know that General Charpentier is listening as well. This is it, then.
I hit a brace, put on the Look, and ask, "You have a problem with my men and myself, Major?"
"Only with the stench, boy," answers this Major Levesque, grinning around his cigar smoke. "It looks like you've got some manure on your boots as well."
"Very well," I say. "I cannot bear that insult. I will meet you, Sir, tomorrow morning at dawn. You will name your Second, and your choice of weapons. Adieu. My Second will meet yours shortly to make the arrangements."
"What?" exclaims Major Levesque, shooting to his feet. "You are calling me out, you insolent pup?"