Trouble in the Wind

by Chris Kennedy

  Caulaincourt made eye contact with Napoleon’s aide-de-camp first. “Load Emperor Napoleon’s body into the sleigh. You will proceed to Ashmiany for new horses and provisions. I will meet you there and escort the Emperor’s body personally. We will change the horses and proceed with all possible speed to Paris.”

  The general cleared his throat and spoke in a louder voice.

  “Lieutenant Moreau? Summon the commanders to the front of the march immediately. I will meet them there. Have General Mamet report directly to me here. For the rest of you, I am giving you an order you will follow immediately and without fail. Speak not of what has happened here under penalty of death. The army, and the world, cannot know what has taken place until we decide to tell them. Do you understand?”

  Amidst the murmurs and quiet assents, the aide replied in a loud, clear voice, “Yes, sir.” He got to his feet and called for the infantry to assist him. Caulaincourt stood and motioned for the translator to step to the side.

  “You did well, Montagne.”

  He took a breath and replied slowly. “I killed a child, sir.”

  Caulaincourt snorted. “That child killed your Emperor. His cowardly action has taken a great man from the field. Without him, France as we know it could crumble. Our enemies could pounce upon us and wipe us from the Earth in the coming days.”

  The enormity of what he’d seen finally cleared in Montagne’s mind. The war in Spain would certainly falter as would the actions of the French fleet. The loss of Napoleon could embolden the British to attempt an invasion of Europe. Given the state of the Grand Armeé, there would not be much of a fight. With discord rampant in Paris, and the Emperor dead in the Russian snow, what might happen to the very world around them stunned Montagne to silence.

  “We must keep our thoughts present.” The general took a deep breath and exhaled a cloud of steam into the frigid night. His normally calm, almost placid face, appeared more troubled than when on the march. “You are fluent in English, as well?”

  The question momentarily stunned Montagne. “I am, sir.”

  Caulaincourt took a moment to assemble his thoughts. He turned to Montagne and pulled him farther from the crowd, his voice low.

  Caulaincourt sighed and looked up into the darkness. “A war on two fronts did this. We pushed too far east. Our appetites were too large. Our enemies continue to wear us down from all sides and we cannot maintain constant warfare at sea and all across Europe forever. The toll is too great.”

  The usually calm, composed general seemed on the edge of either anguished weeping or incalculable rage. Caulaincourt closed his eyes for a couple of seconds. When he opened them, his composure had returned combined with a sureness, a confidence, Montagne hadn’t seen before. The general’s eyes were clear and bright in the near darkness as he turned back to face Montagne.

  “You will escort the body to Ashmiany with me and then you will acquire horses and proceed to Calais will all possible speed.”

  “Calais?” Montagne blurted. Caulaincourt glared at him and he apologized. “My apologies, sir.”

  Caulaincourt continued, “You will proceed to London on my personal orders and relay a message to their monarchy directly. I will compose it and you will personally deliver it to King George III, or his Prime Minister, in London. Is that clear?”

  Montagne’s mind whirled. Was Caulaincourt assuming command of the Grand Armeé, or the entire French government? Would he plead for peace? Would he capitulate to the powers that wished the Grand Armeé to return to their borders?

  He nodded. “Yes, sir. I will proceed directly.”

  “Meet me at the head of the march in an hour’s time, Montagne. Do not be late. The balance of our future depends on you.”

  * * *

  They arrived at Ashmiany shortly before midnight. The French encampment there was small as most of the logistical stores to feed the approaching army pushed to the east ahead of them. The tiny, war-torn village would be glad to see the French retreat. With the army only six hours away now, the tents and wagons would be loaded and gone within a day’s time. None too soon for the displaced villagers cowering in their homes.

  The aide disappeared to coordinate with those in charge regarding the logistics of the return. Montagne stood by the sleigh, stamping his feet against the cold for a moment before two soldiers arrived to guard the sleigh. Each of the men glanced at the wrapped bundle on the floor of the sleigh for a moment and then took up positions on either side of it, facing away. Satisfied, Montagne moved up a slight incline and found the paddock. A lone sergeant guarded the horses. As he approached, the man stood and saluted.

  “I bear a message from General Caulaincourt and require two horses on his orders.” Montagne said. For the first time, he was aware of both the placement of his sword and his officer’s pistol under his coat as well as the critical nature of his mission.

  “Yes, sir,” the attendant said and disappeared into the makeshift shack to gather the saddle and tack.

  “Where is the quartermaster?”

  The sergeant pointed down the incline to the familiar wagon trains. Two privates, likely roused by the sergeant, appeared in the doorway. One was thin and gangly with a speckled complexion, the other portly with dark eyebrows and sullen eyes.

  Montagne pointed at the gangly one. “Go to the quartermaster and draw ten days’ rations and water.”

  One private disappeared, and Montagne stared at the other one. “Fetch the horses. The fastest you have.”

  Suddenly alone outside the paddock, Montagne turned to gaze over the small village which the logistical forces of the Grand Armeé called home. Though the hour was late, the village buzzed with activity. Armed men ran from point to point as if preparing a defense. From here, he would press on to Miedniki and on to Vilna. Each had a small French logistical garrison to support the needs of the army as it retreated toward France.

  Another sergeant approached and saluted. “Sir, we are preparing for an attack. Local outposts have been harassed by the Cossacks since dusk. It is best you arm yourself and report to headquarters.”

  Montagne bristled. “I will do no such thing. I am under orders from General Caulaincourt in command of the Grand Armeé. As soon as I have a proper mount, I must depart. Prepare your defense, Sergeant. My mission remains unchanged.”

  The man uttered “Mon dieu,” before turning back toward the village and sprinting into the night.

  As Montagne stood waiting for his horses, the cold suddenly seeped far inside his coat and shoes. He grew anxious to be off on his mission, and he looked into the paddock several times, until finally the sergeant appeared with his horses. Down the hill, the gangly private and two other figures moved toward him, each carrying a sizable load. They divided the load between the two horses, and when the mounts were ready, Montagne did not hesitate. He swung into the saddle on the black gelding and did not look back as he galloped off for Miedniki.

  * * *

  Two days west of Vilna, the forests gave way to large expanses of dormant grasslands. Under their intermittent blanket of snow, the fields showed the marks of couriers and small units of the French army along the route of march as they coordinated the retreat of the main effort.

  Montagne followed the trail west as fast as his horses could go. Every couple of hours, he dismounted and led them through the fields and occasional stands of forest to rest them and get his own blood flowing. Fatigue tore at him from all sides. Stopping to sleep for any length of time seemed out of the question. Every time he’d come across an encampment, he’d been too awake and refreshed to feel compelled to stop. During the long night, he’d almost fallen from his saddle twice before finding a dilapidated barn. He’d lain down in the old, musty hay for an hour at most before guilt propelled him onto the horses and moving further west.

  As he rode, paying attention to the horses and his pace, Montagne’s mind tried to grasp the situation. Somewhere to the south, Caulaincourt and the body of the Emperor moved at high speed to
Paris. He tapped the reassuring lump under his jacket of the general’s note for the British monarchy and resisted, again, the temptation to read it even under the pretense of committing it to memory.

  No. Montagne shook off the thought and lowered himself from the saddle to walk alongside the horses for a while. The general trusted me to deliver his message. I must trust he knows what he is doing.

  He swung his right leg up and over the horse’s back as the black gelding flinched backward. Montagne ducked and reversed the movement, reaching his leg toward the ground as the whistling hum of a near-miss shot through the space where he’d been a second before. The crash of a musket firing sounded through the strand of dormant trees he’d been about to enter. His heart racing, Montagne withdrew the pistol from under his coat and visually checked its readiness. Thankful for war horses familiar with the sound of weapons that didn’t spook easily, Montagne used them for cover and looked toward the sound of the shot. In an instant, he saw a silhouetted rider on a pale horse gallop west and away from him.

  He stood frozen in the snow for half a minute, trying to calm both his racing breath and his frantic mind. Had he been followed? Why would someone shoot at him? As he crossed eastern Europe, every dark corner of forest and wide-open plain had kept his eyes darting back and forth except for this one. He’d failed to stay alert and it almost cost him his life. Montagne rubbed the several days growth of beard on his chin and closed his tired eyes. He leaned his forehead against the horse’s hide as he fought against the fatigue threatening to undermine his ability to focus on the work.

  The Emperor is dead. The toll has been too great.

  You must not fail.

  He heard Caulaincourt’s voice in his head. The implications of the general’s unread message weren’t clear to the translator, but there were two possibilities he surmised. Surrender to the British demands and an end to the war in Spain was certainly a possibility, though Caulaincourt’s own feelings about the British matched the fallen Emperor’s own, and that meant surrender was out of the question. If not surrender, then was the message one of peace? Cooperation? Something else?

  His eyes snapped open. “I have to ride,” he said to the wind. “For France, if not for me.”

  Survival instincts initiated, Montagne grabbed the lead for his horse and led the pair as fast as he could run into the protection of the strand of trees his attacker had vacated. In the dark, cold forest, Montagne stamped his feet and gazed for several minutes in all directions before climbing back astride his mount and pushing west once again.

  Friendly way stations grew more numerous as he rode, and he traded horses several times in the ensuing days. Yet his own fatigue wore down on him unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his service. The forests and hills of Germany slowly became the rolling terrain of eastern France. At Roubaix, he turned northwest and made for the coast. The grasslands were brown with winter. He thought again of the sun and warmth of the family lands above Nice, and he longed to turn toward Paris and ride further south without looking back.

  As he rode, Montagne wondered if Caulaincourt and the other leaders shared his fatigue, and not just with the war, with the struggle and upheaval of his country. He’d been ripped from his chosen studies and placed into the armed service of his country by a man seemingly hell-bent upon destruction at all costs. Emperor Napoleon would be equally celebrated and scorned for centuries to come. The suffering of so many would be forgotten.

  Perhaps it’s time I leave this all behind. For good.

  The enormity of the thought struck him as the pre-dawn twilight spread over the sprawling coastal plain of Calais. Fishing boats crowded the harbor afraid to move into the channel and the constant swarming presence of the English fleet. Montagne believed it would be easy to find a patriotic fisherman to risk delivering him to the British.

  At the last post, just as the sun rose to the east, Montagne surrendered his horses and sought out the quartermaster for rations and additional loads for his weapons only to be directed toward a distant, quiet tent. As he approached, Montagne listened to the whisper of caution from his mind and drew his pistol before he stepped inside. A lone, dark figure sat on a stool. He looked up and raised a pistol, pointing it at Montagne’s chest. Montagne’s own pistol was trained on the young man’s smiling face. The two stood for a moment in awkward silence.

  The Emperor’s aide laughed and spoke in fluent English. “Captain Montagne, I’m afraid I must relieve you of that note. His Majesty will never receive it as long as I live.”

  Montagne smiled at the man’s audacity. “Because of your loyalty to the Emperor?”

  “No, my duty to the Crown.” The aide stood and stepped closer. “I give you this chance, Montagne. Where is the message?”

  “Go to hell,” Montagne said and pulled the trigger. He squeezed his eyes shut expecting the report of the aide’s pistol pointed at his chest. When it didn’t come, Montagne opened his eyes and saw the aide lying on his side grasping for the pistol that had fallen from his grasp. Montagne stepped forward, kicked away the pistol, and knelt.

  The aide coughed and blood sprayed from his mouth. Still, the man sneered as he struggled to speak. “France will fall, Montagne.”

  “Perhaps,” Montagne replied. “But not today.”

  * * *

  Finding a boat to traverse the channel took considerable effort. Not many sailors were willing to entertain the certainty of intercept with the British navy even while traveling under a flag of truce. War made cowards of dishonorable men. Montagne, in his addled state, wandered through the docks. Morning should have been a busy time along the docks in the wide, sure harbor, but the vessels remained in their moorings as if frozen. The few fishermen at their boats watched him with uneasy eyes. Most looked away when he acknowledged them with a nod and a hopeful smile. Others turned their backs on him. When they did, he realized how much war had changed him. As a young officer, the idea of a Frenchman turning his back on the army, and a representative of the Emperor himself, would have angered him beyond the edge of reason. But the near-constant warfare had taken too much of a toll on the populace. He understood that toll for the first time in his life. His own commitment to the mission would have waned save for his respect for Caulaincourt and his own dreams of returning home to a land at peace.

  An older man with a shock of white hair under a black knit cap merely squinted at Montagne’s request. He nodded and pointed at the small, single-masted boat. Before Montagne could even settle himself in the small bow, they were under sail across the placid harbor. Montagne lay in the ship’s tiny bow to sleep.

  Near noon, a rough hand shook him awake. Montagne sat upright at the whistle of a single cannonball arcing over their heads into the ocean. Over the stern, where the rudder sat unmanned and amidships, a warship approached. Montagne struggled to stand. He waved his arms.

  “Sit down,” the old man called over his shoulder. “I’ve hoisted the proper flag. They’ll take you aboard, Captain. Just negotiate my freedom.”

  Montagne looked up at the simple white rectangle floating in the wind where the sails once billowed. As the warship came alongside, he looked up to see British soldiers pointing their rifles at his chest, careful sneers on their faces.

  They collected him from the fisherman and roughly hauled him aboard what appeared to be a French-built Pallas-class frigate flagged as a British warship. His feet had barely touched the deck when the ship’s captain, a pleasant-faced man with dark, windswept hair appeared in front of him.

  “You’re in quite the mess, sir,” he said with a grim smile.

  Montagne straightened. “If you’ll permit me to come aboard, Captain,” he said in fluent, British accented English. “I am carrying a message from General Armand-Augustin-Louis de Caulaincourt, the Commander of the Grand Armeé, for the eyes of King George III only.”

  The ship’s captain blinked but said nothing. “Can you elaborate further?”

  “I appreciate your discretion, sir. That
is a conversation best held in private. Your quarters, perhaps?” Montagne asked.

  The captain nodded stiffly. “I am Captain Murray Maxwell of the Daedalus.”

  “Antoine de Montagne, senior translator for General Caulaincourt,” Montagne said. He kept his gaze stern as if asking the young captain to say nothing more. “Sir, if you would, please release the fisherman; I traveled under the flag of truce to be here. Your quarrel is not with him or his meager catch.”

  Captain Maxwell nodded. He turned to a burly sailor with a trimmed beard. “Master-at-arms, release the fisherman. Take Captain de Montagne to my cabin. Post two guards at the door. I shall join him shortly. Mister Mowett? Make sail and continue the trials.”

  Montagne heard the crew spring to action as he found himself escorted belowdecks to the captain’s cabin and an uncertain future. He didn’t have to wait long.

  The promise of delivering critical intelligence to the Admiralty, and the King himself, kept Maxwell firmly in Montagne’s confidence. Upon hearing the news of Emperor Napoloeon’s death in Russia, Maxwell called his sailing master. Maxwell interrupted the sea trials for the newly-commissioned Daedalus and reversed course for England with all possible speed, yet he told no one of Montagne’s news or mission. The seas were rough during the transit, but Maxwell’s treatment of Montagne never deviated from genteel and pleasant. Montagne wondered what the crew discussed in hushed tones as they glanced at him during his time on deck, but no one said anything to him save for the ship’s captain.

  They anchored in Portsmouth two days later and, circumventing the authority of the port commander, Maxwell arranged a coach and escort for himself and Montagne to London. Montagne had said nothing to anyone besides Maxwell about the demise of Napoleon and it became clear Maxwell understood the information’s impact on all of Europe. The young ship’s captain climbed aboard the coach to complete the last leg of the journey with Montagne.