The Battle

by Patrick Rambaud

  Two young men were walking along the Jordangasse. They were both almost the same tender age and wore dark woollen frock coats and top hats. The oldest, who must have been twenty, toyed with his cane to give himself a nonchalant air. The other, Friedrich Staps, had not gone back to his room in the Krauss household that night and so didn't know that it had been visited by Schulmeister, the police officer, and that his underhand manner, his mocking remarks, his air of secrecy and the statuette of Joan of Arc had aroused the suspicions of Henri Beyle, the French lodger on the floor below. When they finally reached his lodgings, instead of saying goodbye, Ernst hurried Friedrich on, murmuring without looking at him, 'Keep walking as if we're out for a harmless stroll. Don't turn around . . .' Friedrich obeyed because his friend had sensed some danger but he didn't dare ask him the grounds for his distrust until they reached the nearby Judenplatz. They pretended to look into a tailor's window. 'What have I to be afraid of?'

  'There was a Berline opposite your front door.'

  'There may have been.'

  'I've got a sixth sense for the law.'

  'The police? Are you sure? No one knows me in Vienna.'

  'Let's be on our guard. Our comrades will put you up, don't set foot in that house again. Did you leave your things there?'

  'Oh, yes . . .'

  He was thinking mainly of his statuette, since he had kept his knife with him. 'Never mind,' said Ernst.

  'It can't be helped,' sighed young Staps, but the exploits he was going to perform demanded sacrifices on his part.

  The previous evening, Staps had met Ernst von der Sahala in the quiet salon of a Viennese cafe. They had recognized each other immediately - by a sense of affinity

  - without needing to introduce themselves.

  'How is our brother, Pastor Wiener?' Ernst had asked. 'May God bless him for having recommended me to you!'

  They were both German and Lutheran, but Ernst was a member of the Illuminati who, like other sects of the time

  - Colonel Oudet's Philadelphians, the Concordists, the Black Knights - declared themselves tyrannicides and called for the death of Napoleon, the oppressor of peoples. The two boys had talked for a long time without showing any outward emotion, their voices rendered inaudible to the neighbouring tables by the playing of a violin. Then they had wandered along the ramparts, admiring the countryside lit up by the fires of . Staps had spoken of his mission. He told how he had disappeared from Ins home one morning, leaving a note for his father: Tm going to do

  what God has ordered me'. He believed he was chosen. He had heard voices. He had passionately read Wieland's Oberon, the naive poem inspired by the Middle Ages in which a dwarf, the elf king, helped Huon of Bordeaux in his expedition to Babylon. Thanks to a magic horn and bowl, Huon won the hand of the Caliph's daughter, after stealing hairs from her father's beard and three of his molars. Above all, he had read Schiller, the sentimental Schiller, inhuman in his nobility, and he had been transported by the Maid of Orleans. He had become Joan of Arc. Like her, he would liberate Germany and Austria from the Ogre's yoke. And so he bought a knife.

  Eight o'clock in the morning sounded from the clock towers. The two boys walked through the streets of the old town, arm in arm, singing softly as if they were a little drunk. 'In war,' Ernst had said, 'patrols never challenge people if they're out carousing on a spree.' They passed the Dominican church and ran into a police patrol, who made fun of them. Finally Ernst led his new follower into a covered passageway which brought them to a paved courtyard. Ernst headed straight for one of the doors and knocked several times according to a code. It opened and they entered a corridor and then a long room weakly lit by two candles. At the end of a table, a thin, old man dressed in black was reading the Bible.

  'Pastor,' Ernst said to him, 'we must give this brother shelter.'

  'He can leave his bags here. Martha will take him up to the rooms on the third floor.'

  'He has no bags. We'll have to get him what he needs.'

  'What he needs?' the old pastor said. 'Hear what the Prophet Jeremiah tells us . . .' He took his Bible and read in

  a quavering voice: ' "For this is the day of the Lord God of Hosts, a day of vengeance, that he may avenge him of his adversaries: and the sword shall devour, and it shall be satiate and made drunk with their blood. The nations have heard of thy shame, O daughter of Egypt, and thy cry hath filled the land: for the mighty man hath stumbled against the mighty, and they are fallen both together."'

  'How beautiful that is,' said Ernst.

  'How true,' said Friedrich Staps.

  Napoleon was pale, his skin almost translucent, his face as smooth and expressionless as an unfinished statue. He looked at the sky then lowered his empty eyes to the ground. Standing at the head of the large bridge, which had broken apart moments before and now pitched and rolled like a boat, he was observing the burnt mill; its smoking wreckage would have to be removed before the two halves of the roadway could be coupled together over a span of a hundred metres, and the breach repaired through which the river was rolling like a mountain torrent. Mute, more dumbfounded than upset, the Emperor kept his hands behind his back, but gripped his whip tightly. That morning, the situation had favoured him; the offensive had been taking effect. Lannes was routing the Austrian centre and pursuing his forays deep into their lines, while Massena and Boudet waited to lead their divisions out of the villages. But on those immense plains the Emperor couldn't apply his usual tactics. Surprise and rapidity: he had tried these when the army surged across from Lobau and they had bought him to the brink of victory. But war was changing. As under the monarchies,

  battles now were played out between rival artilleries and rival regiments, with masses of troops launched against other masses — always more men, more dead, more canister shot and musketry. The sight of the extra men he needed on the other bank drove him into a fury: Davout's army at a standstill, his cannon, his wagons of powder and supplies, his useless columns of men.

  A few paces behind him, ill at ease and anxious, Berthier and a group of officers didn't dare move or speak. They waited, hoping for the dazzling order, the moment of inspiration that would turn their predicament on its head. Lejeune was among them, bareheaded, without his shako, his uniform in disarray. Without looking round, transfixed by this bridge, too long and too fragile, which defied his will, the Emperor called out, 'Bertrand!'

  Discreet and devoted, General Count Bertrand stepped up, his hat under his arm, and stood to attention. The Emperor had decided where the bridge was to be thrown across the river, he alone had determined the time needed for it to be built, but he constantly wanted to lay blame on others and Bertrand was in command of the Engineers.

  'SabotatoreP

  'Sire, I carried out your orders to the letter.'

  'Traitor! Look at it, this bridge of yours!'

  'In one night, sire, it was not in our power to construct anything better on such a difficult river.'

  'Traitor! Traitor!' Rounding on the others, he said, l Ha agito da traditore! And you as well! All of you! You betray me!'

  No one replied. There was no use. The Emperor had to vent his wrath.

  'Bertrand!' 'Sire?'

  'How long to repair your sabotage?' 'At least two days, sire . . .' 'Two days!'

  Bertrand caught a powerful blow of the whip full in the face. The Emperor was breathing heavily. He walked towards his horse and, with an impatient wave, asked Berthier to follow.

  'Did you hear the insolence of that damned Bertrand?'

  'Yes, sire,' said Berthier.

  'Forty-eight hours! Where is the Archduke?'

  'In his camp on the Bisamberg, sire.'

  'Hmm . . . He will soon learn of our misfortune.'

  'Certainly in an hour or two. And he will seize on it to send all his reserve troops against us.'

  'Unless we persevere with the attack, Berthier! Lannes is in an excellent position, he has thrown the Hohenzollern infantry into confusion!'

  'But we're
going to run short of munitions.'

  'Davout can ferry supplies across in boats.'

  'In small quantities, sire, and with a high risk of capsizing.'

  'Then we'll order the withdrawal.'

  'If we withdraw, sire, the Archduke's armies will regroup.'

  'And if we do not withdraw, the Archduke will attack our poorly protected flanks and it will be a massacre! We must fall back.'

  'Where, sire? Onto the island?'

  'Of course! Not into the Danube, you idiot!'

  'It's impossible, in the time we have, to take across somewhere near fifty thousand men, and cannon and materiel, before the Archduke falls on our rear from the riverbank.'

  'Let's first withdraw without haste to last night's positions. Massena and Boudet will entrench the villages, Lannes will hold the slope. When night has fallen, we will blockade ourselves on the island.'

  'So, we have to hold out for ten hours . . .'

  'Yes!'

  Once again at nine o'clock in the morning, Colonel Lejeune was galloping joylessly through the wheatfields, this time to deliver Marshal Lannes's order to withdraw. He passed a procession of Austrian prisoners marching in the opposite direction, an entire battalion of fusiliers without muskets or caps, their eyes fixed on the ground, some with slash wounds and a perfunctory bandage round their heads or their arms in slings. A few limping stragglers brought up the rear, their gaiters stained with blood. They marched past into the wheat, led like a flock of geese by young Louison, who was improvising a remorseless saraband on his great drum. Despite his heavy-heart, Lejeune smiled. It reminded him of Gueheneuc's adventure after the victory at Eckmiihl. The colonel was delivering a message when he came across a regiment of enemy cavalry wandering aimlessly in the dark, who, without further ado, had surrendered. The Emperor had been greatly amused. 'So, Gueheneuc, you're the fellow who surrounded the Austrian cavalry singlehanded, are you?' But behind that morning's

  batch of prisoners came Lannes's men, wild-haired, swaggering and dressed in their spoils like bandits. They carried enemy muskets under their arms like firewood and hauled five undamaged cannon with the caissons still coupled, pouches stuffed with cartridges and a flag riddled with bullets.

  Lejeune carried on towards the front line which had pushed so far forward that, in the distance, he could see chasseurs a cheval in the hamlet of Breintenlee, on the flank of the firing. Marshal Lannes was sitting on a caisson without wheels, directing by dictating the necessary orders to his aides-de-camp, who ran to deliver them to Saint-Hilaire, Claparede or Tharreau.

  When Lejeune dismounted, Lannes frowned and exclaimed, 'Ah! Here comes the colonel, our harbinger of doom!'

  'I'm afraid Your Excellency is right.' 'Speak.'

  'Your Excellency . . .'

  'Speak! I have grown accustomed to terrible news.'

  'You must halt the attack.'

  'What? Repeat that piece of nonsense!'

  'The offensive is suspended.'

  'Again! Barely an hour ago your comrade Perigord asked the same of me so that the damage a burning raft had done to that ddvil of a bridge could be repaired! Is it made of straw, this bridge of yours?'

  'Your Excellency . . .'

  'Do you know what's been happening, Lejeune? Over there, they formed up the minute we gave them a breathing space and we had to break through them again. And we did. We left some of our lads behind on the field, but

  we routed the Austrians a second time! And what, we're expected to sit down and watch those Hohenzollern puppets rally round again?'

  'The Emperor has ordered a withdrawal to Essling.'

  'What?'

  'It's more serious this time.'

  Lejeune explained the recent events to Lannes. Thrown by the news, the marshal lost all patience. 'We held victory in our grasp! We held it, I tell you! One hour more, with Davout's support, and it would have been all up with the Archduke . . .'

  Then he dictated his orders to his aides-de-camp. 'Bes-sieres is to pull the cavalry back to between the villages, Saint-Hilaire and the others are to withdraw in good order, but gradually, so that our about-face isn't obvious. It must look as if we have a new strategy, as if we're hoping for reinforcements to arrive at any moment or allowing the artillery to deploy on the plain. We have to keep the Austrians guessing and not give them anything to cheer about.'

  He stood up to watch his officers leave to deliver the painful orders, then noticed that Lejeune hadn't moved. 'Thank you, Colonel. You may return to the Headquarters Staff. If you come through this and one day find yourself telling our story, however far-fetched it may sound, I give you leave to say that you saw Marshal Lannes undone — oh, not in combat of course, but by an order. All it needs is one word to lay a soldier low. What does Massena think of this?'

  'I couldn't say, Your Excellency.'

  'It must enrage him as much as me, but he has a longer

  fuse and keeps his tongue under a tighter rein. He never lets anything show. Unless he doesn't give a hang .. .'

  Lannes took a deep breath and threw out his chest. 'I wish this withdrawal to be a model of its kind. Run and tell His Majesty that.'

  Lejeune rode off, leaving Marshal Lannes standing in the wheat. He thought that this was no ordinary battle; their spirits rose and fell too often and it wore their nerves thin. The fighting was beginning to die down. It was already very hot. Lejeune felt like taking a long siesta. How he would have loved Vienna if he had come simply as a traveller. He heard Anna Krauss's German songs echoing in his ears. When the war was over, they'd go to the Opera together. With high, jerky steps his horse picked its way between the corpses of both armies.

  Colonel Lejeune's orderly officer was greedily devouring a cold chicken. After he had handed the letter to Mile Krauss, he had met Henri who had instantly bombarded him with questions. He was a decent lad but something of a braggart who loved to sing his own praises and so he had pretended to be exhausted by the fighting he'd witnessed from a distance, safe on the island of Lobau, until Henri asked him if he was hungry. Then he had brightened up and followed him to the kitchens, his muddy boots treading dirt into the floorboards. A chair was drawn up at the table covered with provisions delivered on the sly from the commissariat. Feeling quite at home, his coat unbuttoned, he plunged his hands into the various dishes, punctuating his sentences with a wave of a gnawed drumstick and

  charging his glass with a light Viennese white wine so often that the carafe became smeared with greasy fingerprints. 'Yesterday was hard going/ he said, as he chewed and took another drink, 'but the Colonel didnl get a scratch. I swear, and this morning, when I left him on the long bridge. Marshal Davout's army was coming in the nick of time with cannon and wagons of supplies."

  'Supplies which, judging from your appetite, were running awfullv low 1 '

  'When it came to that, yes. Monsieur Beyle. It was a close-run thing. All the poaching meant that there was no game left on the island at all."

  'And what about in the field. : "

  'Everything is proceeding admirably under the inspired command of His Majesty. At least that's what Colonel Lejeune said to me. Monsieur, but he wasn't lying, you could tell that trom the confident air he had about him. The Austrians are getting a thrashing, there, that's the truth ot it, and our men are flying at them. Victory is within our grasp.'

  Anna had entered the room, holding the anodyne letter Louis-Francois had written her in German, and she was staring fixedly at the ravenous lieutenant, whom she tound extremely vulgar. Having paid a visit to check that Henri was taking his potions and that his health was improving. Dr Carino translated the officer's news for her in a low voice. Anna gradually became paler. She wrapped herself up in her embroidered shawl as if it was cold, and crumpled the letter in her clenched fist. Henri observed her out of the corner of his eye and he found it hard to understand why she wasn't in the least overjoyed by the good news. Then he said to himself that the young woman was Austrian,

  perhaps her father w
as fighting for the Archduke; she would justifiably be anxious on his behalf, one side's victory would mean the other's rout and, whatever the outcome, the situation was bound to be painful for her. This contradicted the theories Henri was developing, based on his conviction that love surpasses and eclipses family ties just as surely as those of nationality. He reflected on this, barely listening to the orderly officer who was describing dashing exploits under fire while attacking a hare terrine. What if Anna were not in love with Louis-Francois : In that case, did Henri stand a chance.'

  'Then,' the orderly continued, gulping down an enormous mouthful of terrine, 'the Emperor ordered the offensive and the whole army came out of a bank of fog . . .'

  But that's it, Henri persuaded himself with a smile. She doesn't love him. Anna was looking wretched and she fell into a chair as Carino continued to describe the advance of Napoleon's armies and the flight of the Hohenzollern regiments, which the lieutenant was transforming into wholesale defeat. Anna's eyes welled with tears and the crumpled letter, which she didn't even consider worth picking up, fell to the floor. The doctor put a hand on her shoulder and she burst out sobbing, to the great astonishment of the lieutenant who kept on working his jaw muscles like a cow chewing the cud. He^filled a glass to the brim and stood up to offer it the young woman. 'It's given her a shock, the poor lady, a little wine will set her right . . .'

  Henri stopped him, took the glass and drank it himself. 'What she needs most is rest.'