Susan Johnson (14 page)

As Bonnay called for troopers to go out and search for the major, Duras stood at the window of the mayor’s office surveying the tumult and chaos below him. The square at Constance was crowded with wagons and carts filled with the wounded, bands of soldiers resting where they could, the tangle of bodies and conveyances the remnants of his army.

Now that Jourdan was finished, they’d have to withdraw even farther in order to protect their western front and hold it against the archduke’s victorious army. The numerical advantage had always been on the archduke’s side; everyone had known that from the beginning. Their lesser strength necessitated caution in picking one’s battles, knowing when to advance and when to hold. A pity Jourdan was so stupid.

Duras’s face was haggard, his right arm in a bloody sling, his face, hair, and uniform black with gunpowder. Cholet was busy at a small table near the door, transcribing a report to be sent to Paris. “Do you want me to mention the Russians?” he asked. Duras had been uncertain earlier whether he wished to send the information on, since the few
Cossacks sighted at Bregenz could possibly have been some Austrian mounted troop.

“No, don’t. Keep the message simple. We’re pulling back. We’ll let them know our position later. By the time they receive the information it won’t matter.” His voice was raspy, his good shoulder wearily braced against the window jamb, his exhaustion stark. No one had slept for two days nor would they anytime soon with the archduke’s army on their heels.

“We’ll stay here only long enough to care for the wounded and see that the men are fed,” Duras went on. “I want to be west of Constance by nightfall. Set up a temporary field hospital near the lake for those wounded who won’t wait until evening and call a staff meeting immediately. With Jourdan finished, we stand alone against the archduke. We’ll fall back behind the Thur River and from there to positions covering Zurich. If anyone disagrees they can express their opinion in fifteen minutes. And dammit, find Vigée. I want to make sure Teo’s all right.”

He didn’t know where to begin to find her in the turmoil of the retreat, the scene below indicative of most of the city and surrounding countryside. Four thousand of his men needed provisions and care and he needed to see that Teo was unharmed. He stood by the window, watching for Bonnay’s return, hoping to see a familiar face or figure in the crowd.

He fell asleep for a few minutes leaning against the window, and when Bonnay rushed into the room shortly after, the familiar sound of his voice stirred him awake.

“You found her?” He was instantly alert, facing Bonnay.

“One of the troopers found Vigée.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Duras growled, an uneasy feeling gripping his senses.

“She’s fine,” he explained, “but Vigée misplaced her at the temporary hospital that’s been set up in the church. She’s helping the wounded and apparently walked off into
some other room. I left instructions for Vigée to bring her here.”

“Where’s the church?”

“Around the corner near—”

“Show me.”

It was too dangerous in the milling disorder of the retreat to have Teo alone anywhere, church or not, hospital or not. “What the hell’s wrong with Vigée?” Duras demanded, striding from the room so swiftly, Bonnay half ran to keep up.

“She just slipped away, sir. He said one minute she was there and the next …”

A muscle along Duras’s jaw twitched, his displeasure obvious. But he offered no further recriminations during their rapid passage through the crowded streets. “Is that it?” The church façade rose up before them as they turned a corner.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did he see her last?”

“In the main aisle, sir. That’s why he didn’t worry about keeping her in sight. She was talking to the priest, and who could be safer, Vigée said.”

But neither Vigée nor Teo were in sight when they entered the narthex and beheld a scene of tragedy and confusion. The wounded lay in the aisles; those less seriously injured were propped up against the walls or seated on chairs. The fresh straw strewn on the stone floor was already blood-soaked, and the pitiful din of cries for water and assistance resonated through the huge nave.

“Where are the medical officers?” Duras demanded.

“They’re on their way. I ordered supplies and medical staff. Vigée sent his men for water. There’s a priest, sir. He may know the countess’s whereabouts.”

He didn’t, and after assuring the cleric that aid was en route, Duras searched the side aisles and apse, stopping to speak to the wounded, assuring them of their passage home, thanking them for their courage at Bregenz. It was a slow
circuit through the disarray of soldiers lying on the floor, yet Duras’s gaze remained alert for signs of Teo. Each passing minute without sight of her added to his discomfort.

They found her a lengthy time later in a small walled garden behind the church, helping a cleric bandage a wounded trooper. Vigée knelt beside Teo, holding the man’s leg while she and the young priest wound the remnants of her petticoat tightly around a bloody gash.

“She wouldn’t come, sir,” Vigée quickly declared on catching sight of Duras, apology in his tone.

“Don’t blame him, Andre,” Teo said, smiling up at Duras, her gown stained, her hands smeared with blood. “I refused to leave when so many men need attention here.”

“The surgeons and physicians are on their way,” Duras declared. “They’ll be here shortly. Come now, I’ll take you to some lodgings.”

“Will we be here long?”

“I hope to move out before evening.”

“Send someone for me when you’re ready to leave. I’ll help until then,” she replied, her attention returning to the task, the soldier deathly white as they ministered to him.

“Teo.”

She looked up again, the single word a soft repressed command. “Vigée will stay with me, won’t you?” she queried, gazing at the major over the soldier’s injured leg.

“Yes, ma’am. That is,” he added, aware of Duras’s scowl, “if you wish me to, sir.”

Bonnay smiled faintly at the contretemps; Duras was unfamiliar with having his orders disobeyed.

“You don’t wish to leave?” Duras murmured, constraint in his voice.

“Excuse me,” Teo quietly said to the priest at her side, and rising in a rustle of heavy faille, she walked over to Duras. Taking his hand, she drew him slightly aside. “I’m so pleased you’re safe,” she gently said. “Would you like me to care for your wound?”

“A surgeon already looked at it. Come away from here, Teo,” he said, his tone insistent. “Is that asking so much?”

“To sit somewhere and wait for you?” she countered, her gaze challenging. “Please, darling, I’ll be of much more use here. I know how to bandage a wound. If nothing else I can fetch water for the dying and hold their hand.”

“I’d prefer you be safely away from this.”

“I’m fine with Vigée.”

He gazed at her for a moment, debating his degree of comfort against her wishes. “You weren’t hurt in the retreat?”

“No. Vigée had us into the saddle the minute he received your message. He didn’t even give me time to change, so I rode in this,” she said, smiling. “With the skirts hitched up around my knees.”

“I’m concerned with you in the turmoil of the city. I’m not sure it’s safe.”

“Are
you
safe with Jourdan’s army gone?”

“For the moment, but we’re continuing to withdraw tonight.” He smiled at her. “This isn’t a discussion about my safety, darling.”

“Nor of mine, my love,” she sweetly replied.

The smallest silence ensued and then Duras said with the faintest of sighs, “If you won’t come with me, you
must
stay at the church so I know where you are.”

“Agreed,” she pleasantly said, and then reaching up, she brushed her finger over his cheek. “You need a shave and a bath.”

“Maybe we can find hot water somewhere tonight.” His voice was low, his gaze intimate, and for a moment the disasters of the past few days vanished.

“A heavenly thought,” she softly replied.

“Yes,” he said, suddenly aware of his utter fatigue. “Vigée stays with you every moment. No exceptions.” Steeling himself against his weariness, he briskly went on,
“There may be enemy agents in all this tumult. I want you to understand the risk.”

“I understand Korsakov may be in the vicinity.”

“We don’t have verification but it’s possible. Don’t take any chances.”

“You’ll come for me when it’s time to go?”

“If I can’t, I’ll send one of my aides. I worry about you.” His voice was scarcely a whisper. “The retreat could be dangerous if Archduke Charlie decides to pursue us.”

“I’ll stay with Vigée and wait for your summons.”

“You’ll need clothes.”

She glanced at her soiled skirt; she’d not noticed.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Don’t fuss.”

He grinned. “I’ll try not to.” Clothing for Teo was one of his smaller concerns at the moment. Signaling for Bonnay, he murmured to Teo in parting, “Stay with Vigée.”

“Yes, General.” She playfully winked.

He winked back, a languorous drift of dark lashes and enticement.

And despite the tragedy and uncertainty of the times, both felt a sweet rush of hope.

The men who assembled in Duras’s temporary office a short time later were the remnants of his staff. Bastoul and Ruby had been killed in the assault; Gazan was badly wounded, and Loison was at the surgeons’ having a shrapnel wound treated. No one in his staff was unscathed.

There were no arguments concerning the need to fall back to Zurich. The small Army of Switzerland was isolated in a salient exposed to encirclement by the archduke in the north and the Austrian army in Italy. Their positions in the Tyrol would have to be abandoned, all the garrisons on the east bank of the upper Rhine withdrawn. A few officers suggested abandoning Switzerland completely and making
a stand in the Jura Mountains and the Savoy Alps. But Duras refused.

He spent the remainder of the day with Bonnay organizing the withdrawal. The headquarters at Sargans were ordered to pack up and retreat to the west. The greater part of the army still marching up from the Tyrol had to be redirected. His instructions to the quartermaster were extensive and the quartermaster corps worked overtime requisitioning supplies from the local inhabitants. Of the 4,200 men who’d survived Bregenz, all were in need of rations and medical supplies while additional transport was required for the walking wounded.

Very late that afternoon as the final commands for moving out were being implemented, a devastating message arrived from Paris. The Austrians under Kray had defeated Schérer’s Army of Italy near Verona and had driven the French back to the Mincio. With Suvorov due to join the Austrians in Italy soon with additional Russian soldiers, the situation for France in the south was becoming desperate. Their own circumstances took on a graver note.

If the Army of Italy was defeated, the Army of Switzerland would find itself alone and in extreme danger.

“Duras has your wife with him,” said the slender man who sat across the desk from Korsakov.

“
With
him … with
him
! Impossible!” The Russian general leaped to his feet, his towering stature threatening, his rage visible as the color of his face changed from pink to red to violent crimson. “It’s one of his whores,” he spat, leaning forward pugnaciously.

“She waited for him at the monastery near Bregenz,” Herr Mingen said, calm before the Russian’s wrath, his years as a double agent imbuing him with a cool self-possession. He’d been sent out to search for the general’s wife, and while his loyalties lay with Prussia and its king, there was no harm in disclosing the information to Korsakov. “She appeared well guarded.”

“She’s his prisoner, then,” General Count Ilyich Korsakov
flatly declared, someone poaching on his personal property inconceivable.

“I spoke with one of the troopers near the stables. Duras is very solicitous of her.”

“Solicitous?” The man referred to as the Butcher pronounced the word with a soft malice.

“Apparently after his successes in the Tyrol, Duras spent two days behind closed doors with the countess.”

“You misunderstood!” Korsakov thundered, his beefy hands formed into fists.

“No, Your Excellency,” replied the man who spoke ten languages without accent.

“If you’re wrong, you sniveling dog,” Korsakov whispered, his voice quivering with menace, his close-set eyes virulent, “I’ll have your liver.”

“I’m very certain, Your Excellency,” Herr Mingen blandly said, concealing his disgust. Incompetent, brutal men like Korsakov were an all-too-common product of privilege.

“She will be brought back,” Korsakov harshly decreed. “
You’ll
bring her back,” he ordered.

“A very dangerous expedition, General.” Mingen’s voice was soft, his pale hair gleaming for a moment in the sunlight pouring through the windows as he glanced at the large map on the wall. “And expensive,” he gently added, taking in the contested land through which he would be obliged to journey.

“Speak to my aide about the details,” Korsakov curtly responded. Did the man think him some shopkeeper to haggle over money? “My Chechens will accompany you.”

“Do you wish the countess brought back alive?” the agent inquired. The Chechen death squads were specialized units; they didn’t take prisoners.

“I need the countess
alive
. But Duras will pay dearly for his temerity, damn his lowborn hide!” Korsakov dropped back into his chair with a glowering scowl. “Collect your
money and supplies and be out of here by morning. I want her back immediately!”

After handling his business transactions with Korsakov’s aide, Herr Mingen had one brief detour before meeting his Chechen traveling companions.

The apothecary opened his door at the sight of Mingen, although the closed sign had been in place at his establishment on a side street of Bregenz since yesterday morning when the defensive artillery opened fire.

“Our superiors might like to know Korsakov’s death squad will be stalking Duras as of tonight,” Anton Mingen told the man he’d shared quarters with at university. Their employer, King Frederick William III of Prussia, was interested in maintaining his neutrality in this war, although the pressures from England and the Second Coalition to join them had been intense. Frederick didn’t trust Thugut, however; the Austrian prime minister’s designs on his territory were no secret. He preferred Austria be kept busy fighting the French. “Tell the king,” Mingen went on, “he might prefer Duras remain alive. There’s no other general capable of defending France against the Coalition forces.”