Reign of Fear: Story of French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars (Cantiniére Tales) (25 page)

Henriette
aimed, pushing me back protectively, but I sidestepped her, aiming mine. Pistols are not accurate weapons, and we had no real experience or training with them, but we had nothing else. Andre was grinning nervously, half thinking it a game, two women with aimed pistols. Henriette sobbed and fired. I did too. We did so too soon. The smoke lingered in front of our eyes, and the two men looked at each other. They were unhurt.

Visibly relieved and assured
of his invincibility, Gilbert smiled. ‘In a moment I will let Andre speak to you privately, as part of his many rewards,’ he told us calmly. The jailer’s face bore a grin that made me twitch with fear. Henriette grimly began to load the gun, and Gilbert rushed forward, wielding a thin, glittering sword. Andre stalking after him with a leer. She would not make it, not by far. I wished I had a fine sword, but in absence of it, I flipped the pistol to be used as a club, but we would die. Worse.

A musket banged loudly and we shook in shock,
sure one of us would fall dead. Neither did.

Instead,
Andre fell on his back, his musket firing in the air, and a red dot on his chest was growing.

Gilbert turned
in shock to look at the shadows of the orchard. The man who had fired came forward, holding a smoking musket, his cheek blackened by gunpowder. It was one of the soldiers we had passed just now, the ragged one in a dirty green uniform. He was fixing a wickedly glittering bayonet, quietly looking at his foe. Gilbert licked his lips, contemplating flight.

‘You won’t get to finish with us, cousin, if you flee now,’ I told him grimly. ‘Surely the Revenant would be mocked if he did!
I shall make sure of it. Go and show us you can kill with your own hands, cousin!’

He cursed, rushed Henriette, and hit her savagely on the cheek, stopping her from loading the pistol. He kicked the weapon aside and glanced at me. ‘You wait, Jeanette.
I will be right back.’ I eyed his sword, as he rushed the soldier. He was no expert with the weapon, I saw that much by the way he held it. The soldier grinned at Gilbert as the Revenant vaulted a fence crazily, rushing. I bent down on Henriette to get her ammo and powder in case Gilbert won, but that was not to be. The soldier calmly faced the rushing young man. Gilbert’s sword was trembling in anticipation, and he shrieked shrilly in anger as he got near. The soldier stood back almost casually, knocked the sword aside with the bayonet, sparks flying brightly, and the bayonet blade flashed forward. Blood spattered the soldiers face. Gilbert fell over the musket, his face in a terrible agony.

The soldier kicked the sack of flesh out of the bayonet, an
d gazed around, starting to reload expertly, his eyes darting this way and that. Finally, assured there was no immediate danger, he kneeled over Gilbert, who was silent in his agony, trembling as if dying and the soldier grunted happily for his fine bit of work. Apparently, my cousin was done for and I collapsed in relief and sorrow, a curious mix as I eyed the unhappy boy who had been so driven with his need to be born again, with none to remember his past, desperate to build his new life from a scratch. Then I gazed at the burning house and shuddered in horror. My siblings could be dead. They surely were.

Other soldiers came
to the farm. There were twins, both unusually tall and broad, with vacant looks on their long, slack faces as they kneeled near the man who had bayonetted Gilbert. One man was furtive and fat, a roguish man with a sweaty, chubby face and greasy hair, sneaking around the house, checking on Andre and one tall, fairly handsome, and gangly man, stomping up with little subtlety. The leader, having finished reloading, came forward and waved the twins back. I rammed the ball down the barrel of the pistol, and stood over Henriette, who was staring at the house, where flames licked up from the windows.

The
soldier came closer. I knew him.

It was the
kind; strong man who had carried me home the day father had let the nasty mason brutally beat me. He looked uncertainly at me and perhaps he knew me as well. His face brightened suddenly and he hooted. ‘You are the blonde girl from the tavern, remember? Years past! Never forget a face, though yours is a woman’s face now! This your fair mother?’ he asked, bending down next to her, waving the soldiers back. I turned my eyes away from them to the house that was burning fiercely now.

‘My babies,’ Henriette said
vacantly and the man eyed the house. He shook his head in deep sorrow and then he sat down and waited with us. We spent the terrible night there. The soldier had told his mates to make camp near the road. The house was kindling soon, the frames still standing, the smoke stinging our eyes. We cried, Henriette and I. Even the soldier did. The twins, her family. Gilbert, mad, mad Gilbert had gotten to them first.

We fell asleep, at some point.

I woke up to loud sounds of throw debris and burdened grunts. Henriette was roused too. The soldier was in the smoking ruins; gingerly lifting burned, malformed wood around, heaping it to the side. He kept at it for an hour, then two and had dirtied his already ragged uniform, and singed his hands and face. One of his moustaches was smoking. Then he came to us and crouched on his heels. I saw his boot had a sole that was flapping free. He had a kind, olive skinned face, very intense eyes, and as he took off his bicorn to wipe sweat, I saw he had a bald spot on top. He was no longer young but middle aged, a sergeant that was balding and I wondered how the time had flown by. He looked at the ruins furtively.

‘I have two things, perhaps three I need to tell you,’ he said, somberly. ‘
First the good news, I suppose. That sorry man hanging on the tree was alone here, when they came. There are no scorched bones in the remains of the house.’

We looked like we had been
physically struck. Henriette got up, as if to go and verify his words. She sat back down in indecision and hope, and then got back up, not believing him after all. She ran to the ruins and spent half an hour checking he had not lied to make us feel better. She came back, still uncertain. ‘Perhaps they all just burned up?’

He shook his head. ‘Something is always left. Bones,
humps of resistant meat and often skin. Trust me, I have seen the worst of them. The house is empty. Save for a dead cat. You saw it’s bones?’ She nodded, hopeful. ‘The man who was hunting for them and you, well he failed. Something likely alerted your family and they fled in time. I think that is what happened.’ We nodded; dumbfounded by sudden hope, not sure what to make of his words.

‘Second,’ he said, looking down, apparently sorry, ‘the man I bayonetted yesterday, well, he is gone too. He did not die, though I was sure he would. Must have missed his vitals, see?
’ I noticed someone had dragged Andres corpse aside, and flies were swarming around it, but there was only a patch of dried blood where Gilbert had fallen. The man continued in remorse. ‘Perhaps he had no vitals to butcher. I am sorry. And to think I have been a soldier for such a long time.’ He was truly sorry he had failed to kill Gilbert. I cursed, and the regret I had felt at his supposed death last night was gone. Gilbert might have survived and was out there, plotting, unreasonable, and relentless as a tax collector. I cursed myself for not having shot him in the head while I could. Was he really the Revenant, impossible to kill? No, that was not possible. Marcel shrugged. ‘He hated you, no?’ the soldier asked. ‘Any idea where your children might be? Your relatives have a place she could take them?’

Henriette took a deep breath. ‘There has been war here.
To the city? I do not know. Perhaps they heard that Gilbert had been looking for them, and had hid just in case. These days, you run if The Committee of Public Safety is checking for you.’

‘That man I bayonetted,’ he said
softly, ‘is he powerful?’ Gilbert was if he worked for Robespierre. He was, if powerful men were indebted to him. I wondered at the contract Georges had spoken about. We nodded. ‘In that case, you should not stay. This was my fault, so I have to find a way to repay my terrible sloppiness. Come with me to the army, and one day, not now, we could find them. In the army, you are safe. Even if we don’t have much to eat in Italy.’

Henriette eyed him curiously. ‘We find them? You and us?’

He looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, yes. That is the third thing I wanted to tell you. I will help. Later. You see, in the army we do not like for any outsider clamoring to hang our mates, unless we dislike the person. You can be one of us and I am sure nobody would hate you. Oh, they drag the generals off to Paris to be parted from their heads, but try to take one we like? Not a chance.’

‘Join the army. Just like that?’ I asked him
suspiciously.

He went red from face and he stammered a bit. ‘In the army, you need to be of use though. We used to have thousands of women in the camps, but they passed a law to abolish women in the army last year. Not that they all obey, you see, but I am a sergeant and I know the captain of our fifth company. The captain is a young, nice
boy; captain Freckles we call him and can get you in. You can be one of the blanchisseuses and do laundry, same with her.’ He pointed at me. He got up to stretch, agitated, and nervous as he took off his bicorn hat and held it on his chest. ‘Possibly and preferably, you could be even one of the vivandière. We call them cantienére these days. You could hold canteen for the company, with me. Make profit? Be safe as you can with men who fight wars. Not sure how many cantienére we can have, by the rules, but we will see. What say you, eh? Come with me. There is a catch, though.’

Henriette sighed. She looked around. Her siblings were gone
and so were the twins and powerful, utterly mad Gilbert was free, driven to silence us, driven to be born again, driven to make sure Georges had not told us anything. He worked for Maximillien Robespierre. She spoke hollowly. ‘I heard that a cantiniére must be married to a soldier, no?’

He grinned, nodding. ‘That is the catch.’

Henriette smiled at him sarcastically. ‘You mean to bed me, then?’ She asked him and I was about to tell him to go to hell, but mother put a steely finger on my pursed lips, and I settled for scowling at him.

He bowed to me and took mother’s hand. ‘Yes, I mean to be your husband. Rarely have I seen a woman as brav
e, or daughter like her mother.‘ God, he sounded like Georges had the day he saved us the first time. He continued, as if preparing for the most terrible battle of his life. ‘And you are comely. I make promises, and keep them,’ he said, his eyes clear, as he held his hand out. ‘I am Marcel Lefebvre, by the way, of Marseilles. I’m a deadly chasseur in the sad army of Italy and I will make you uncommonly happy unless I die young.’

She looked at the
stretched hand until it began to shake in rejection. It started to move away, but Henriette moved and took it, and I wondered how could she, after all that had passed. Yet, he hooted happily and I wondered what promise mother saw in him. True, he was brave. But did she love him with a passion? I think she did, later. That day she needed someone to take care of us, and I think she knew Marcel to be a man to keep his word.

They got married in the city hall near Lyons. Then, we took off towards
distant former kingdom of Savoy, planning on skirting the Alps, then heading for famous Nice and the fabled coast and then ultimately towards dangerous Piedmont and Austrian Italy, and that is how we joined the army.

Later, we read about Camille and Georges. Georges had died bravely
, as bravely as the king, lying on the same bed with his nemesis, equal at last.

‘I swear to God, Gilbert, that I am done feeling sorry for the past.’ (Jeanette to Gilbert.)

CHAPTER 12

In early June 1794, the beautiful, scorching sun was beating down on our crowded wagon. Earlier, we were sure to die, now we rode calmly south in a motley company of soldiers, praying Jean and Julie were alive, hoping so, believing it.

Mother was
unexpectedly married to a soldier and we were on our way to the ill famed army of Italy, and especially to join Marcel’s company of chasseurs, light infantry of the 4
th
Chasseur Battalion, part of the newly formed 4
th
Light Infantry Demi-Brigade, holding three battalions altogether, as Marcel told us to our confusion. The men with Marcel were near immaculately uniformed, coming straight from the depot and were all new recruits. Near immaculately, for they had burst some seams in their ill-made clothing, their terrible boots were showing marks of rapid disintegration, and they missed gear here and there, torn buttons mostly.

Marcel sat happily next to
mother, driving the cart, constantly eyeing the men behind him. ‘Strange lot, mad as hell to join up. Our battalion is a professional company, the two other battalions are volunteers, who get paid more even if they are like lost colts on a pasture when the time to soldier comes.’ The fat man lounging on the wagons across from me was grinning constantly like an idiot child, his green jacket stretched to its limits. He was called Laroche, though he refused to tell us if it was his first or last name. The handsome one, whom I noticed had a cleft on his chin, was shy to the point of blushing, often fingering prayer beads. He was nodding at Marcel’s words, agreeing on his assessment of their apparent madness. Marcel saw this and snorted. ‘Some will get their military names from their mates, but I call that one Cleft, his chin looks like a small ass. Mention a woman, and he dies of fright. Full of God and the Republic he is, but the Austrians will teach him to pray to the man next to him in the line. Some girls offered us apples yesterday and he blessed them and blushed. God, what a soldier.’

‘I do not fear women, citizen!’ Cleft said angrily, glancing at me. I was a woman; I had to remind myself as Cleft looked away quickly.

The fat man snickered at poor Cleft, nodding at my direction. ‘She is far above you. As far as the clouds are to a pile of dung. But keep on staring and praying to your God you would get a kiss from the pouty lips.’ Apparently, Laroche loved to torture Cleft.

‘I have not stared at her, not like that,’ Cleft said
in distress, forcing himself to look at my eyes, trying to appear utterly innocent and playing nonchalant, but failing miserably as he blushed fiercely and I just smiled back at him as he looked away.

Laroche was looking at the twins, both with vacant faces, and hoping they would help him
with Cleft, but they were still like carcasses. Laroche snorted and whispered. ‘Like blocks of wood, those two.’ Then he kicked Cleft’s boot. ‘Well, Clefty. Your musket is your girl now, and you take care of her. Forget the likes of that beauty.’ Laroche grinned at me lecherously, but for some reason, I did not feel threatened by his light flirt.

‘Listen to
the poacher and the thief, ass chin,’ Marcel said callously. ‘Besides, she is my family now.’ I glanced at Laroche in alarm and fascination. A thief and a poacher? He grinned back at me.

‘Very nice, yes sir, citizen sergeant,’ Cleft muttered and I shrugged at him
to put him at ease, liking his face, which, while showing the symptoms of shyness was curiously quarrelsome, despite the blush. I felt a bit protective of him and scowled at Laroche who hooted.

‘W
ho are you?’ I asked the twins to find something else to talk about.

‘Left and Right, I call them,’ Marcel answered for them. ‘Does not matter which is which.’

‘The other one is a bit taller,’ Henriette said, and the dolts smiled back at her. They were not the brightest bayonets in the army and they nodded and murmured something I could not make out.

‘Just smile at them, Jeanette,’ Marcel said and I did.

Most of the time, we were lulled to lethargy by the gentle rocking of the wagon and we enjoyed glorious silence and slight, happy banter. Mostly, the trip was uneventful. We would stare at the rolling countryside, enjoying the tall-forested hills and we would wash in the frigid rivers we passed. Much of the time, Laroche stared at me brazenly, speaking of small, inconsequential things and I liked his dry humor. The others were visibly trying to avoid me, but not because they disliked me. I was a woman; sitting right next to them and God help me, it made me feel powerful how they reacted to me. If I moved my leg, they jumped, save for Laroche. If I let the wind blow my hair back, they sighed, except for the fat one, who snorted in amusement, aware of my game. I did not entertain any ideas, God knows, after all we had gone through. I did not exactly enjoy their fleeting looks, but it was a strange feeling nonetheless to be the center of the attention. I did not fully understand what had happened the past years, but whatever it was, it was powerful.

One cloudy day, when we were getting nearer the coast, Henriette grunted and pulled
me angrily to sit next to her. ‘You have flirted enough, girl.’

‘I did no such thing, mother!’ I told her
, indignity evident in my trembling voice. Laroche snorted.

Marcel grinned at her. ‘Soldiers, wife, will stare at her and at you too. There are bad men in the ranks, especially with the ones dra
fted last year, so be careful, but mostly, these pups just stare like fools, drool like a large dog would, and will not bite, only nibble. I think she,’ he nodded sagely at me, ‘will get a marriage proposal once a day.’

‘I am not interested in men,’ I said woodenly but they ignored me and I ignored Laroche, who was giggling
at my words. I stared at Marcel, who was smoking his pipe, and chatting with Henriette amicably. He had saved me years ago, then with Gilbert. He smiled easily, he commanded his men sternly, and he seemed honest and good. Henriette, mother, seemed to like him. He held promise for her, but such things evaporate into thin air. We were not safe, I decided and felt unhappy about it. Had it not been unfair to propose to her like that? Could she say no? I would be careful with Marcel, I promised, tired of getting the short end of the stick with men. Yet, mother trusted him, having told him everything of our past, including the terrifying truth of having been a whore out of necessity, but I trusted myself alone. Marcel had taken it all in with a shrug and a hug and had not judged her.

Marcel spoke of our destination.
‘Army of hooligans. That is what we are. We took Savoy in 1792 but Piedmont and Austria in the Po-valley over the fucking Alps? We fight them from the coast, keeping the route from Nice to Genoa barely open, but no. We cannot take them nor the horrid mountain passes. We hold on to the strip of the coast, they hold the defensive high country, laugh down at our attempts of dislodging them and they enjoy the vast breadbaskets of the bountiful valleys beyond. We need supplies, all kinds of food, and real money, not the worthless arrears they give us as payment. Civilians will not have them and so we steal. Just to think, out there in Italy, food, so much delicious food in the Po-valley, in Piedmont, in Turin, their capital. But we cannot get there.’ He spat. ‘No general who has the balls to try.’

‘Doesn’t the army feed you?’ I asked him as I sat there, holding on to the side of the wagon.

He looked at me with large, stupefied eyes. ‘I have to remind myself you know nothing of this. They say three hundred million is the budget for the army. We never see any of it. We live off the land, lass.’ He ruffled my hair over Henriette’s shoulder. ‘No, the thieving civilian contractors bring in all the food and gear, but first they take half, sell it off to wherever, then the senile generals, then devious colonels, and even some desperate captains take a share. No, we are an army of looters. But it matters not; by having no supply train we march quick, hungry rings around the enemy burdened with one, if needed.’

‘How did we come to be in a war with everyone?’ Henriette asked.

‘Émigrés, the nobles raised the foreigners against us,’ Cleft said abrasively.

Marcel laughed hollowly.
‘Oh, yes. All their fault. No, we killed the king and the kings in those countries do not want to die in similar unfortunate circumstances. So, we fight. It is not all bad, I think the Republican armies, especially those of 1791 and 1792, trained well, learning quickly, hitched to us veteran troops as this new demi-brigade, work well. Hard to beat fanatics like Cleft there.’

One of the twins grunted. ‘I hear some rebel in the armies? Against the officers?’

Marcel nodded. ‘Some do. Some go political. Many Jacobin clubs in the companies and they seem to confuse fine order and needed discipline with the ridiculous equality and nonexistent brotherhood. Meaning, they do not like to take orders. Not in our company, though. Rebel against me, boys, and I will shoot you. But yes, some of the nobles left us rudderless and left their commissions, mainly due to the soldiers turning to citizens, thinking they have rights while suffering under the flags! You behave, my lads, and get rid of the extra shit in your overstuffed bags too. You will need sturdy trousers, not fanciful gaiters. We all lose the useless things first night out on the campaign.’ They looked at him, and looked at their bags, stubbornly keeping their new gear, but Marcel smiled. ‘You will see.’

Cleft roused himself
after a short, unsuccessful struggle at remaining silent. ‘Citizen Sergeant?’

‘Yes, Ass-C
hin?’

Cleft looked sour for a second. ‘Sergeant. Is it right to shoot men who only exercise their right to equal treatment?’

Marcel sat still, as if thinking about it. I saw his face, and he was actually biting his lip. Laroche, sarcastic and realistic pulled his helmet over his eyes, snorting in disgust, and the two dull twins were arguing over a piece of bread. Marcel finally could not help it but handed the reins to me. He laughed. His eyes got wet as he laughed, his belly heaving up and down. Some cows stopped chewing on hay as we passed them, ogling at the laughing sergeant. Finally, he wiped his eyes and settled somewhat, trying to catch a breath. ‘Cleft.’

‘Citizen Lefebvre,’ Cleft answered icily, insulted.

‘Sergeant. I am a sergeant. I have fought for France, the king, the-whatever-body-happens-to-rule-now. I have bled profusely and often. I have done so, when your papa was still whipping your skinny bottom with a switch. You call be sergeant. I dare you to do otherwise.’

‘Yes,’ Cleft said, defiant as a baby. Marcel gazed at him, and Cleft stiffened visibly. ‘Sergeant.’

Marcel grinned widely. ‘There. So simple. Now we have established that equality is but a fart and a fantasy in the army, as it should be, for what kind of an army would negotiate with its tools? Eh? What if we had to attack, and citizen Ass-Chin would like to have some delicious coffee instead, citizens Right and Left would like to sleep later and citizen Laroche was off stealing something? Only brave sergeants would attack, and perhaps they would be enough to over roll any opposition, but the truth is the army would be full of useless apes. So, we are not equal, never will be. ‘

‘God created us equals,’
Cleft said carefully, stubborn as a mule.

‘Ah! You love your God, you do.
I remind you we all do as well. God is big in the army.’

‘That is good, citizen sergeant,’ Cleft replied, apparently a bit mollified by God s
till being present in the army.

‘
Yes,’ Marcel said icily. ‘But you see, God has different rules for a soldier. A soldier is a tool, not a man. One that occasionally gets shot, sometimes by the enemy, often by the sergeant. God says you have no rights, though more rights than a civilian.’

‘That cannot be,’ Cleft said. ‘Sergeant. God has similar rules for all men.’

‘Indeed it
is true. There are hundreds of Commandments, and…’

‘Surely only ten?’ said Cleft with pity.

‘You might think,’ Marcel growled, ‘that a sergeant is a simple thing, unable to read, but I know where the bible came from and it came from the Jewish religion. There, you have hundreds of Commandments. But fine, let us go with the ten. It makes this argument easy. The great Ten Commandments. The one stating you must not kill is obviously void. For us, this means: kill abundantly. Kill often. The right to kill makes us omnipotent and gives us power over the other nine.’

‘Surely we only kill for the God and Republic, and when it is needed?’

‘Republic has a God of Reason. Or Treason. How do you explain this, Ass?’ Marcel mocked Cleft. ‘How is it you love the Republic that hates God?’

‘God is still there, and even the Republic makes mistakes. It was due to priests, not the God we abolished….’

Laroche stepped in. ‘I was poaching on a fat priest’s lands last year. He took an oath, like many did, and became a state priest. He forgot the church and married a plump farmer’s wife. He is very happy now.’

Cleft grimaced at Laroche’s light tone,
holding his head tiredly. ‘What about the other commandments.’

‘Thou shall kill nullifies them,
I told you,’ Marcel said as if to an idiot.

‘How?’ Cleft asked, mystified.

‘Well, we all curse God. We name him time and after and it is usually a foul, hair-raisin curse his name comes up in. Yes, we curse him and spit at him, especially when on some fucked up campaign. We do ask his help again when we are about to die, and he forgives us for we will kill for him.’