The Battle

by Patrick Rambaud

  the outskirts of Vienna, which he shared with another deputy commissary. His room mate was snoring thunderously. So, by candlelight, Henri prepared his leather trunk for the next day's move. Leafing through each of his books before packing them away, he fell by chance on a passage in Alberti's Shipwrec. 'We didn't know in which direction we were drifting in the vastness of the sea, but the very fact that we could breathe with our heads above water struck us as marvellous enough.' These lines written during the Renaissance matched his state entirely. A little while before, as he and Perigord were wandering with torches through the catacombs under the Augustiner-Kirche, they had come across row upon row of corpses, sitting or standing, crowded together, dry, miraculously intact and without the slightest sign of decomposition. They both thought of the King of Naples who used to spit on his enemies' embalmed bodies, which he'd hang in rows like puppets, in the days when a Visconti trained mastiffs to tear men to pieces and the Individual emerging in Italy was armed with claws and fangs. Eventually, Henri lay down on his mattress and he dozed off just before dawn, fully clothed, with the haunting, tender image of Anna Krauss in his mind's eye.

  Two

  WHAT SOLDIERS DREAM ABOUT

  It was glorious weather and the acacia trees smelled sweet. On that particular Saturday, the eve of Whitsun, Private Paradis was lying on the island of Lobau's bank. He had taken off his voltigeur's jacket and laid down next to it his yellow and green-plumed shako, his knapsack and all the other kit he had to strap himself into. His greatcoat was rolled up as a pillow. He was a tall, red-haired peasant with down on his upper lip, and broad hands more suited to the plough than to arms: he'd only ever used a musket to scare off wolves. He dreamed incessantly of deserting and reaching his parents' farm before harvest time, where he'd be of more use, but how was he to take advantage of the imminent battles to get there? Nevertheless, the oats would still have to be brought in in a month, and then the wheat in August. His father would never manage on his own and his eldest brother hadn't come back from the wars. He chewecl a twig, thinking that he hadn't even had time to spend the florins he'd earned the other night in Vienna looking after Edmond de Perigord's horses. Suddenly the birds stopped singing. He propped himself up on his elbows in the grass. Massena's IVth Army Corps was crossing the Danube on the long bridge which the Engineers had finished at midday, only moments before. All one

  Ram baud

  could hear was the sound of thirty thousand feet hitting the planks in step. Precariously balanced on light craft, tied together so as not to fall into the swirling water, sappers were using boathooks and oars to turn aside the tree trunks swept down by the current so that they wouldn't sever the mooring ropes. The Danube was turning savage. Two days earlier, after nightfall, Yoltigeur Paradis's division had embarked on rafts and long boats and, risking the river's violent swell, had made a sudden landing on the island to dislodge the hundred or so Austrians on picket duty. There had been a short exchange of fire, bayonet thrusts in the thickets, a few Austrians taken prisoner in the dark and many more who had fled . . .

  Paradis was expert at laying snares and wielding a catapult and on Lobau, a former game reserve, there was plenty to keep him occupied. That morning he'd hit a bird, he didn't know what sort, a golden-headed oriole perhaps, which he'd spotted on a willow branch. It was roasting on his bayonet and he stood up to turn it on the fire of dry brushwood. On the other side of the island, he'd also seen pike and roach in an oxbow of the Danube, and he'd promised to teach one of his comrades to fish, a man with more education but no experience of the countryside. Paradis shrugged his shoulders, because he knew that the future, even the near tuture. didn't belong to him any more. Sergeant-Major Roussillon's shout confirmed this painful thought.

  'Hey! Lazybones! We're short-handed over here!'

  On the main bridge, now. wagons were transporting the pontoons and boats needed to throw a second bridge from Lobau across fifty metres of fast current to the left bank.

  By their uniforms which glinted in the sunshine, Paradis recognized, from a distance, Marshals Lannes and Massena riding at the head of the convoy, surrounded by their plumed officers.

  'Look alive!' yelled Sergeant-Major Roussillon, glowing with pride at the brand-new Legion d'honneur which he'd pinned in a prominent position on his chest and stroked from time to time with a sigh of pleasure.

  Paradis took the half-roasted bird off his bayonet, burning his fingers as he did so, trampled on the fire, which started to smoke, picked up his gear and set off after Roussillon, who had mustered thirty riflemen at the edge of a broad-leaved wood. In shirt-sleeves or bare chested, each of them was holding a woodcutter's axe. Orders had come through that the small bridge needed timber, since there weren't enough trestles, girders or posts to support its roadway of planks.

  Tut your backs into it, lads!' the sergeant-major harangued them. 'In two hours it has to be ready!'

  The men spat on their palms and began striking the base of the elms; the bark sheared away and splinters flew into the air.

  'Attention!' bellowed Roussillon, as straight as a ramrod.

  'Stand at ease!' said, in unison, the two officers who were riding towards them through the high grass. Colonel Lejeune, who had been closely following the construction works for two days, was accompanied by Sainte-Croix, Massena's orderly. The latter asked the sergeant-major, 'Are these Molitor's men?'

  'They are, sir!'

  'What are they doing with axes.5 '

  'The second bridge^ Colonel, and there's no time to waste.'

  'But that's the sappers' work.'

  'They're dog-tired, that lot, from what I'm told.'

  'I don't give a damn! They can rest later. I want these men on the left bank where they're to establish a bridgehead. Marshal Massena's orders!'

  'Did you hear that, you bunch of layabouts?' shouted the sergeant-major. 'Get your kit on!'

  Paradis sighed as he put down his axe. He had made a good start on his tree, he felt satisfied with it, but what the hell. Tribulations like this were a soldier's daily bread: put the musket down, pick it up again, buckle your belt, march, keep on marching, sleep a couple of hours wherever you found yourself, take cover, lie in wait, back on your feet again like a jumping jack, march mindlessly on and never any question of stumbling or one's ankles being sore or getting one's breath back or eating anything except those foul greasy beans which two men had to share from a single mess tin. Paradis checked that he had everything in his cartridge pouch: the thirty-five cartridges, the musket flints. He pulled up his gaiters which pinched his calves, took his musket from the stack and fell in behind his comrades as they started for the coppices facing the Danube's left bank.

  'Halloa!' Sainte-Croix said to Lejeune. 'The river is rising and the current's running fast.' 'Yes. It worries me.'

  'Let's not waste time. I have to take these fellows over to the other side by boat. Were you assigned to choose a suitable place for the bridge?'

  'If it comes out over there, do you see, those spinneys will hide it from any Austrian scouts.'

  As he said this, Lejeune heard someone talking in the riflemen's ranks. Paradis was explaining to his neighbour that there had once been a ferry ten metres upstream. Lejeune called to the lad, 'What's that you were saying?'

  'There was a ferry here before, sir, by that clump of reeds.'

  'How do you know?'

  'Well, it's easy, sir. Look on the bank, you can see where the farmers' tracks went down to the river.' 'I can't see a thing.'

  'Nor can I,' said Sainte-Croix, despite his field glass.

  'You can!' insisted the soldier. 'The grass is shorter and bent back. It's been trodden down so much that it's not grown back the same. There were tracks here, I swear.'

  Lejeune gave the soldier a grateful look.

  'You're a mine of infomation, young man.'

  'Oh, no, sir, I'm only a peasant.'

  'Sainte-Croix,' Lejeune said, turning towards Massena's orderly, 'I leave you to c
ross with your riflemen, but I'm going to keep this one.' He pointed to Paradis. 'He's got a very sharp eye, which I've no doubt will stand me in good stead on my reconnaissances.'

  'Very well. I ©nly need two hundred men to cover the pontoneers.'

  Paradis could barely make head or tail of what was happening to him.

  'Your name?' asked Lejeune.

  'Voltigeur Paradis, sir, Second Infantry of the Line, 3rd Division, Commander General Molitor.'

  'You have a Christian name too, I presume.' 'Vincent.'

  'Well then, Vincent Paradis, follow me.'

  Lejeune and his discovery moved off towards the centre of the island as Sainte-Croix gave the order to launch the boats which had been unloaded from the wagons: this was a difficult undertaking in such a strong current, and, standing in water almost up to their waists, skirmishers had to hold the boats steady so that the company could embark without their powder or muskets getting wet.

  A hundred metres away, in a clearing guarded by sentries, the vast tent of the General Staff was being erected, swaths of canvas forming what, in effect, would be a suite of apartments where Berthier would receive the Emperor's orders and have them conveyed to the commanding officers. The furniture still lay on the grass but Berthier hadn't waited for everything to be in place to organize operations. He was sitting outside, in an armchair, and his aides-decamp were spreading out maps and weighting them with stones to prevent them blowing away. The Austrians taken prisoner the previous night were lined up in front of him for questioning and Lejeune arrived just in time to translate. Lost in the midst of such a crowd of officers, Paradis didn't know what to do with himself; he wrung his hands, feeling extremely awkward, and blushed with agitation. He had felt important when Lejeune had told the sentry barring his path, 'This one's with me. He's a scout.'

  'He hasn't got the uniform for it, Colonel.'

  'He will do.'

  What on earth did a scout's uniform look like, Vincent Paradis wondered.

  Their faces dark with three days' growth of beard, covered in dirt and with their light uniforms in rags, sixteen Austrian privates stood gaping stupidly in the middle of the clearing, shooed together like bantams and stunned still to be alive. They meekly answered the questions put bv Lejeune, who was entirely at ease with his role and passed on such information as they gave to Berthier.

  'They belong to the 6th Army Corps of Baron Hiller.'

  'Are there any other outposts?' asked the Chief of Staff.

  'They have no idea. They say that the main body of troops is encamped up there on the Bisamberg.'

  'We know that. How many men?'

  'They say at least two hundred thousand.'

  'Exaggeration. Halve it.'

  'They say there's five hundred cannon.'

  'Let's put three hundred.'

  'This is more interesting: they maintain that the Archduke Charles's army has recently been reinforced by some detachments from Bohemia and two regiments of Hun garian hussars.'

  'How do they know?'

  'The Hungarians have reconnoitred right up to the Danube. They recognized their uniforms, they even talked to them.'

  'Good,' said Berthier. 'Have them sent to Vienna, they can work in the hospitals.'

  A moment later, before Lejeune could even enquire about a new uniform for Vincent Paradis - supposing such a thing was possible — news reached them that the small

  bridge was fixed. Lasalle's cavalry and Espagne's cuirassiers were to cross immediately and occupy the villages on the left bank, followed by the rest of Molitor's division. Lejeune rode off to deliver the orders.

  Now he was waiting at the mouth of the small, hastily built bridge, which was being shaken by the swirling waters. The planks of the roadway had been laid double and most of the pontoons were tied to the bank by thick ropes, but the river was continuing to rise and such improvisation made Lejeune anxious. Still, what matter, it looked as if it would hold. Lasalle's chasseurs rode across after their general - his curved pipe jutting out, as ever, from under his bristling moustache - and, reaching the other side, forced their horses to climb the slope and disappeared into the trees. Next Espagne, tall, square-jawed, the pallor of his face accentuated by his black, bushy sideburns, watched his cuirassiers trotting across the swaying bridge. He looked concerned but they crossed without mishap. One of the troopers stared pointedly at Lejeune. This tall fellow, with his maned helmet and his brown coat, was Fayolle, whom Lejeune had struck in the face the other night when he was looting Anna Krauss's house. Caught up in the forward movement, Fayolle had to be satisfied with knitting his brows and then he, in turn, crossed the small bridge and vanished with his squadron behind the dense thickets on the other bank. Finally, as the Emperor had planned and Berthier had ordered, Molitor's division followed at full strength, with the sole exception of a relieved Paradis, who watched his companions of the previous day crossing at arm's length from artillery pieces. The voltigeur was glued to Lejeune's heels, worried that

  he'd be forgotten, and he ventured, 'What shall I do, Colonel?'

  'You?' said Lejeune, but he hadn't time to elaborate: shots could be heard on the left bank.

  'Ah! Now it's underway . . .' Cuirassier Fayolle said to his horse, patting its neck. But no, it wasn't really. Some uhlans had let themselves be shot at by the infantry on the edge of a wood, and they could be seen galloping away through the green crops. General Espagne sent Fayolle and two of his companions ahead to reconnoitre. The villagers of Aspern and Essling had fled, the French following their exodus of overloaded carts, livestock and children through spy-glasses, but some snipers might have stayed behind to harry them and shoot them in the back. Fayolle and the two others rode their horses at a walk through the meadows, skirting the copses and the ponds, more often than not surrounded by tall trees, which broke up the countryside.

  They reached Aspern first, which ran alongside the river, its two broad streets converging on a small square in front of a rectangular belfry. Narrow lanes — which put the troopers most on their guard — wound between the village's low stone houses, each identical with a courtyard in front and a hedged garden behind. A wall ran round the church, high enough to cover the French against skirmishers but not cannon, and they guessed that a substantial house adjoining the cemetery, with a garden enclosed by an earth wall, was the parsonage. They took careful note of each of these details. A few stray birds flew off at their horses' approach. But no human sound. The cuirassiers turned in

  their saddles for a moment, scanning the windows, and then met up with a party of Lasalle's chasseurs on patrol, who they left to continue the inspection of Aspern. They wheeled their horses towards the neighbouring belfry of Essling, which they could see about fifteen hundred metres to the east. Avoiding the swampy ground where the Danube had overflowed, they pushed on to it across the open fields.

  Fayolle was the first to enter Essling.

  The deserted village was like the first one, but on a smaller scale, with only one main street and more space between the identical houses. They had to keep a sharp lookout and stay on their guard for the slightest unusual sound. There was probably nothing to fear, but these ghost villages created a sense of unease. Fayolle tried to imagine them full of life, with men and women standing under the oaks of the avenue and bent over their vegetables in the gardens. Normally there'd be a market here, stables there, a loft over there. Wait, he said to himself, suppose I pay a visit to the lofts? They can't have taken everything with them. At that moment, sunlight glinted on his helmet and in his eyes. He looked up at the second storey of a white house. Was that a ray of sunshine reflected by the panes of glass or had someone in hiding opened a. window? Nothing stirred. He handed his horse to one of his companions and, with the other's help, tried to force the wooden door. It was bolted. He kicked the lock hard, without success, then reached for the pistol in his saddle holster to shoot out the crude lock.

  'Not very subtle,' said the other cuirassier, who was called Pacotte. />
  SO

  'If there's anybody here, they're bound to have seen us. If it's only a cat or an owl, why should we give a damn"

  'That's right: we'll just cook up a nice stew.'

  On their guard, with a loaded pistol in one hand and a sabre in the other, they entered the house. Fayolle shouldered open the shutters with his shoulder so that they could see what they were doing. The room was sparsely furnished with a thick table, two straw chairs, a wooden chest that stood open and empty and a fireplace full of ashes. The ashes were cold. A steep staircase led upstairs.

  'Shall we go?' Fayolle asked Cuirassier Pacotte.

  'If it makes you happy.'

  'Did you hear that?'

  'No.'

  Fayolle stood stock-still. He had heard a creak: a door or a floorboard.

  'It's the wind,' said Pacotte, nevertheless lowering his voice. 'I don't see who could be dumb enough to stay in this rat trap.'

  'Maybe a rat; maybe that's just what it is,' said Fayolle. 'We'll soon find out.'

  He put his foot on the first step and then hesitated, his ears straining; Pacotte pushed him and they went on. Upstairs, all they could make out in the dark room was the blurred shape qf a bed. Fayolle groped his way along the wall until he reached a window and smashed it with his elbow without letting go of his sabre. He opened the shutters and turned round. His companion was at the head of the stairs. They were alone.

  Pacotte pulled open a low door and Fayolle ducked down. As he went into the next room someone jumped on

  him. He struggled, hearing the blade of a knife screech on the metal of his breastplate under his brown coat. He flung out his arms, sending his attacker flying against a wall and then, in the half-light, ran him through the stomach with a violent sabre thrust. He could barely see, but he felt warm blood coating his sword hand as the man's body started convulsing in spasms. With a hard tug, he pulled out his sabre and his enemy slumped to the ground. Cuirassier Pacotte rushed over and opened the window. A fat, bald man in leather breeches lay dying on the ground, moaning as blood gushed out of his mouth, his eyes as white as hardboiled eggs.