by John Hulme
Chapter Four
A Way Home
"Brothers, France needs you; your Emperor needs you. Come take up the cause, fight for your hard won freedoms against the forces of counter-revolution and repression."
From a secluded corner overlooking the village parade square or Place d'Armes, Alain Duroc watched and listened as the recruiting sergeant shouted out his string of tired cliches. Few people stopped to listen and they were mostly women. It had been twelve years since the 'Great Terror' of 1793 and Fouche was long gone, but not the memory his last visit. Few people gathered willingly in the Square during 'official' visits anymore, and today the small group of soldiers and their sergeant were having a hard time collecting an audience.
Far away in Paris, Robspiere, Danton and Murat, the architects of the terror were all dead. The infamous 'Convention' had consumed itself in an orgy of bloodletting, and the revolution had spun out of control. Finally on the 9th of Thermidor (July 27th) the enemies of the Convention struck. Abandoned by the sans-culottes, Robespierre tried suicide and failed, Lebas blew his brains out and Couthon was thrown down stairs by Barras when he came to arrest the fallen leaders.
The victors of 9th Thermidor sent seventy members of the Paris Commune to the guillotine, many of the most egregious laws were repealed and the Jacobin clubs were closed throughout France. The wily Fouche moved to the right, abandoning his place on the 'Mountain' of the Convention and by December 8th, the middle class had once again recaptured the Revolution.
The executive part of the new Government was called the Directory, and five men were chosen as its Directors; all regicides, four Jacobins and one ex-nobleman. They had their problems. Virtually all the European monarchies were waiting to attack France, and in the post-terror confusion they did - with some success. Unfortunately the Directory was unprepared, and previous French victories quickly turned into embarrassing losses.
Bread became a scarce commodity. Towns and ports on the coast were ruined by the British blockade, and in the countryside tax collectors were murdered, conscription officials were beaten up and mobs released prisoners from jails. It was beginning to look as if the 'Great Terror' was returning.
During this time, Alain's eldest brother Simon had fallen to conscription and been marched away to fight in the army. During the war against the Russians he had died near Zurich when General Massena had destroyed a Slavic army and driven the Tzar out of the coalition of the allies. In Avallon the news brought sadness and bitter murmurings. In the one remaining cafe, Alain heard a growing sentiment for a General, any General, to march on Paris, remove the corrupt politicians, and return France to stability and its former glory.
One General in particular heard and moved. He abandoned his army, trapped by the British in Egypt, and hurried home to the shores of France. Once back in Paris his arrival hastened the collapse of the old Directory, and a new power structure formed.
Since November of 1799 France had been nominally ruled by a Consulate of three men. First among equals, a thirty year old Corsican General, Napoleon Bonaparte had quickly established his primacy over his complaisant co-Consuls, and within five years, in 1804, he had taken the final step and declared himself Emperor. Signatures on degrees now all carried but one name - Napoleon - and even that royal prerogative was soon reduced to a simple "N". Frenchmen were no longer "citizens", but "his subjects", and anyone who objected soon came under the scrutiny of Minister of Police, Joseph Fouche.
"Stay well away from that one," said the widow Dupeche, spitting on the ground. She had approached Alain from one side after noticing what and who he was watching.
"Good advice, Madame," replied Duroc.
"I lost both husbands that way," she said, "Henri to the Revolution in '90, and Paul to the levy en masse in '93, or was it '94?" To which Alain could only mutter his sympathies. Everyone in Avallon had similar stories. There was hardly an able bodied man left in the village.
"Would you have a spare bottle or two of wine?" the widow asked, coming to the point of her conversation. The Duroc family had been in the winemaking business since before the Revolution, but the great upheavals of the past decade had seriously diminished their output. Alain was now the sole owner and operator of what was left of the family business, his father having vanished to the Royal cause early in the pre-Revolutionary period and his two brothers having been taken into the army at different times since.
"I'll see what I can do, Madame," he said, "there may be a bottle ...," he looked around, "... in the woods." To which Madame Dupeche smiled, winked and chuckled in her asthmatic throat.
"You're a good boy," she coughed, "not like your brother Simon." Memories of his older brother and his role as one of the leading village Jacobins during the hotter parts of the revolution, still rankled among the more conservative citizens. "Give my blessings to your mother," she finished, "and keep away from those soldiers. That woman has lost enough of her men."
In the woods, thought Alain, still watching the soldiers. That's where Saint Hugh keeps his rest. I wonder how he sleeps?
Since his narrow escape from the Revolutionary Guard and the clutches of Joseph Fouche during the height of the Terror, Alain had kept the bones of Saint Hugh, and the large sheepskin that gave them provenance, well hidden in the woods that surrounded the western edge of the village out towards Vezely. Every time he took a case or two of his wines 'into the woods' for safe keeping, he would visit the spot where he had buried the sacred relics and ask for the blessings of the Saint.
Since that first attack of the falling sickness during the arrival of the bones in Avallon, the curse had sometimes revisited him, but on each occasion the Saint had worked his miracle and lifted him back to health. Alain had noticed in recent years that the frequency of attacks had diminished, a fact he attributed to his regular attendance on the Saint 'in the woods'. But with each visit his uneasiness and guilt had grown stronger and stronger, and with each visit the voice of the Saint had grown weaker and weaker. Alain had the distinct impression that the Saint was leaving him and that his 'cure' might not work for much longer.
When the village priest had saved his life, and placed the bones of Saint Hugh into his keeping, Alain had been told that he held these sacred relics in trust, and that one day he would have to return them to their rightful owners. At first he had felt no guilt at keeping his charge hidden in the woods, but after all these years his conscience was beginning to bother him and the voice of the village priest was sounding louder and louder in his heart. Saint Hugh wanted to go home.
This English Saint, hidden in the woods on French soil, was far from his Cathedral and far from the people he loved. While Alain was sure that Saint Hugh appreciated being saved from the clutches of Fouche and Robespierre, perhaps now he was getting homesick. But what to do? There was no way that the French authorities were going to allow Alain Duroc of Avallon, a nobody with no influence, to travel with the bones of a Saint to the land of their enemies. In fact they would probably regard it as treason to try and return a valued Saint to a country with whom they were in constant conflict. So he waited, and the Saint's voice grew quieter and quieter.
"Brothers," yelled out the sergeant, "once again France is in danger. The evil English King George and his lackey Pitt plot once more with the Tzar and the Austrian Francis to destroy the Revolution and bring France to its knees. Our great Emperor Napoleon is all that stands between us and certain death and destruction. Join him and us in the fight to end this aggression. Even now, as I speak to you, the little Corsican," here the sergeant permitted himself to use the soldiers term of endearment when addressing their leader, "is gathering together a Grande Armee, poised on the shores of France and ready to leap across the 'Canale'. Once in England he will destroy the perfidious 'roast beefs' in their tiny island. Join us in this adventure. Share in the spoils as the Emperor crushes his enemies."
By now most of his audience were thoroughly bored and drifting a
way, so the recruiting sergeant ended his peroration with a lackluster "Vive la France!" and rinsed out his mouth with a swig of coarse red wine from Anjou. This was the last village on his current drive and he only had a few more names to add to his quota. When it came to giving up their sons to the army, universal conscription, applied with varying degrees of harshness over the past ten years, had reduced most villages to hostile apathy, but it was still possible to find one or two likely lads in every village such as this one. In fact, the sergeant noticed with interest, a somewhat weedy youth was approaching them from across the square.
"Is it correct," the youth asked after getting the sergeant's attention, "that the Emperor intends to attack England?"
"Very true, my son," answered the sergeant, looking at this prospect more closely, "our great and glorious leader is at this moment gathering around him a Grande Armee at Boulogne. When he has enough true Frenchmen by his side he will launch himself across the 'Canale' and crush the English King in his castle."
"And will he conquer the whole of the island, even Lincoln?"
"But of course!" shouted the sergeant, who had never heard of Lincoln, "Napoleon will be crowned King of the English and every soldier who walks with him on the streets of London will have his share of the Spanish gold."
In October of the previous year, British ships had seized heavily laden Spanish galleons that were bringing silver from the new world to the old world. This silver had been intended, by the Spanish, to be part of their debt repayment to the French. Loss of this money had resulted in war being declared between Spain and England, the Spanish fleet of ships being placed at French disposal, and the British being able to finance the third Coalition of enemies that were now gathering around France. Everyone in France now believed that the streets of London were now paved in Spanish gold.
"When will the invasion take place?" the youth wanted to know.
"As soon as the French Navy achieves its glorious defeat of the British Navy," he was told. "Night and day, at Toulon and Brest, some of our finest craftsmen are building an unstoppable fleet of war ships. When they are ready, the great Admiral Louis de La Touche-Treville will bring them out to battle the British, and after he has defeated them his ships will carry the Grande Armee to the shores of England and certain victory."
There was only one problem with this plan, as the sergeant and his Emperor were soon to discover. Before he could take command of his fleet, the very competent Louis de La Touche-Treville died and, in a rare moment of bad judgment, Napoleon appointed the inferior Pierre de Villeneuve to replace him. It was a decision that haunted him all the way to Waterloo.
"But, how soon does the Emperor sail?"
"He does not take me into his confidence, little one," laughed the sergeant, pleased to find a prospect among the remains of this village, "but the last time we spoke", more laughter, "he told me that it was to be at the end of the summer, in a few weeks from now".
"If I were to join the army right now, would I be able to fight in England?"
"But of course, mon brave, all the recruits from this area are being sent to the Depot at Troyes for equipment and training, and then it is onto Bologne, the Grande Armee, invasion and gory."
For a few moments there was silence, and then, "How do I join?"
Alain Duroc had found a way of returning the bones of Saint Hugh to their natural home.
(return to Table of Contents)
~~~000~~~