Napoleon's Police

by Michele McGrath

  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.

  The sun broke through the clouds for a moment, hot and far too bright. Even though I screwed up my eyes against the glare, it beat down on my unprotected head and the pain leaped to a new dimension. I had to move from here and find some shelter if I wanted to survive.

  Strangely, it never occurred to me to wonder who had won the battle, them or us. From what I could see, it was a marvel that anyone lived in the whole world. I could only think of Eugénie. I had deliberately put her out of my mind since Lefebvre’s death. Now her face was clear and she remained with me for all of that evil march. My only desire was to see her again, but I did not know how to get off the battlefield, it seemed unending. I picked my way along what seemed to be the easiest route, with fewer corpses to climb over. I stopped many times and wondered if I would have the strength to keep going again. Fortunately I found canteens whose owners had no further use for them and drank deeply. If I had not had water, I am certain I would have added my bones to those already lying on that field. I put on a shako and shed my coat and waistcoat, for the heat was stifling. I bathed my head and tried to do the same for my arm but the twisting made me faint and, in the end, I left it alone. It was a surgeon’s job if I could find one.

  Voices called to me as I passed; French, English and Dutch. It didn’t matter any more. We weren’t enemies, just fellow victims of this appalling catastrophe. At first I tried to help if I could. I spent some time beside a Dutchman, dying slowly of a stomach wound. I sat holding his hand and giving him water while he tried to tell me something. I don’t speak Dutch so I replied to him in German. He thought I understood him but I had no idea what he said. Then he faded away.

  Another victim was an Englishman. His leg was trapped under the body of a dead horse. He was struggling to release himself and called to me. I found a rifle and used it as a lever to lift the horse so he could wriggle free. He thanked me in French and I wished him luck. Then we parted, going in different directions.

  I seemed to have a sort of strength at the beginning, which helped me move forward, but helping the Englishman had sapped what little I had. The evening was drawing near and I began to fear that I would not get away from the battlefield before darkness fell. I might have to spend another night there. The corpses which had lain all day in the sun were beginning to stink and the flies buzzed in swarms over their faces. I heard sounds of people moving, far away from me on my left. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to be found or not. I needed help but I did not want to be taken by the enemy and sent to a prison camp. I resolved to hide and pretend I was dead, if anyone approached. No one did.

  Then I reached an area where I could go no further. I did not have the strength to climb over the bodies and I could see no way through. I almost gave up then. I fell to my knees and started to sob. Then I stiffened as I heard a movement behind me. I expected a dagger and had braced myself to twist and grapple my assailant but no dagger came. A hand caught me under the armpit and pulled me to my feet. The man looked like a scarecrow – his face coated with mud and blood. He was so filthy it was difficult to tell the colour of his uniform but in the end, it did not matter. We seemed to be the only two still moving in that corner of the field. With our combined strength, we forced a passage through the piles. I don’t think I would have made it on my own and neither would he. One of us seemed to find strength when the other was failing. Eventually, after what seemed like hours, the bodies and the debris of war began to lessen. We did not realise it, but we must have been near to the edge of the fighting, although it did not seem so at the time. Had we been closer to the centre, I doubt we would have escaped. It would have been so easy to die of heat and thirst as well as our wounds.

  We walked more easily now, though we were both at the end of our strength. We crawled part of the way up a farm track which seemed to lead away from the battlefield. Water was trickling down a gully and we both drank from it and wet our faces. It was muddy and dank but I would have drunk far worse. We lay there for a while beside the ditch. It was not quite dark yet, being June, but night was falling. I must have dozed because the next thing that happened was the light of a lantern shining in my eyes. A horse moved restlessly nearby.

  “Are you hurt?” a man asked.

  “My arm and my head,” I mumbled.

  “Come then.” Strong arms helped me to my feet and all but carried me to a cart. My companion was already there, lying on some straw beside two others.

  “Where are you taking us?” one of the men asked. Personally I did not care as long as it was away from the battlefield.

  “To the good sisters who will look after you,” the man replied.

  I looked up at the stars, beginning to shine through the darkness and realised that we had turned south.

  ‘Good,’ I thought, ‘nearer to France.’ That is the last thing I remember for some hours.

  When I came to my senses again, I was lying on a straw palliasse inside a barn. The place smelled strongly of cows. Cautiously I stretched. Then I put a hand to my head, which was bandaged. I felt further and discovered that my arm had been wrapped up too. Someone had tended to my injuries and I had no memory of it at all. I tried to move and that brought the pain back and I groaned. A woman in the grey habit of a nun came out of the shadows.

  “I’m glad to see you are awake at last,” she said.

  “How long have I been here, ma soeur?”

  “A night and a day. The battle was two days ago, if that helps you.” She gave me some water and then she turned to go, when I had a sudden thought.

  “My companion, the man who was brought in with me. Where is he?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know. We have so many here.”

  “He saved my life, Sister.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow, if you are fit enough, you will be able to find him.”

  Next day, I began the search for my companion. Men, wearing the uniforms of all the combatants lay scattered in and around the convent. Some, like me, had beds, palliasses or some straw. Others lay on nothing at all as the supplies ran out. I hobbled along the rows of men looking into their faces, but I did not find my friend. He had vanished as he had come. I never saw him with a clean face and I did not even know which army he belonged to, although his French was excellent. He made light of his wounds, but they might have been enough to kill him. I wandered over to the pits which had been dug to receive the dead. All I could see was the top layer of bodies and he was not among them. Perhaps he lay underneath or he had slipped away from the convent, as he had slipped away from the battlefield. I hoped so but, to this day, I never found out either his name or his fate. Certainly, he was not here now. I was returning from my fruitless search, turning over in my mind what I should do next, when I heard my name called,

  “Duval!”

  A man, sitting with his back to a tree, was waving painfully to me. Darvy! I hobbled over and sat down beside him.

  “What happened to you?”

  We compared stories and injuries for a while. By then we knew that the battle had been lost and the Emperor fled. No one knew where he was and few cared very much. One thing was certain, though, the life we had both known, Darvy in the army and me in the Police, was over. What the future would hold for us was debatable. The important thing now was to survive and face it. As soldiers in a defeated army, we would be rounded up and imprisoned by the conquerors. Personally I had no intention of waiting around to be arrested. It was surprising no one had come for us already; we could not have much time left.

  Darvy asked, “What next?”

  “Home. Paris first and then Grenoble. I left my wife and family there.”

  He grinned a pale imitation of his usual smile. “Never thought you’d end up being a family man!”

  “You and me both, but I’ve got to get home
to her. What about you?”

  “Boulogne I suppose. Fishing again. To think I’ve spent all these years trying to get the smell of the fish out of my skin and now I’m going back to it again.”

  “You’re an unlikely fisherman.”

  “You’re an unlikely husband and father.”

  “Then our way lies together for a bit anyhow. Can you walk?”

  “Given the alternative I can,” he said firmly, but he needed my good arm to get him to his feet. His chest was tightly bandaged. Some of his ribs had been broken.

  “Look at us, what a pair of cripples!”

  “We’ll mend. Let’s get away from here.”

  As we headed towards the kitchen to beg some supplies for the journey, we met one of the surgeons.

  “Where are you two going?” he asked. The poor man looked as if hadn’t slept for a week.

  “Home.”

  “Good, we need the space, but let me look at you first.”

  He led us into one of the rooms and poked and prodded for a bit which left us gasping.

  “Rightly, I should keep you both here. You need rest and time for those injuries to heal properly, especially the ribs.”

  “If you keep us here, the cursed English will put us in prison,” Darvy said. “I’d rather die on the road than live in one of their stinking holes for months if not years. I’ve been a prisoner before, never again.”

  “Go then but take as much care as you can. God be with you.”

  We thanked him. He nodded and wished us good luck in the sort of absent minded way of someone who was already thinking about his other patients.

  We went to the kitchen and found one of the sisters in charge. We told her we wanted to leave. She made no move to dissuade us; she had far more seriously wounded soldiers to feed and worry about. Supplies were running out and she had little to give, so great was the numbers they were unexpectedly caring for. Eventually we came away with a half loaf of bread, some hard cheese and a couple of small shrivelled apples. When they were finished, we would have to live off the land — no new experience for either of us. Fortunately, none of our injuries had festered, not like some poor men we saw waiting to die. We could travel, even if slowly and not for long.