The Lightstep (2 page)

'Leave it!' hissed the bastion commander. 'Leave it, and get
your heads down!'

As they ducked, he stood, and showed himself calmly at the
wall.

Crouching at his feet, Wéry looked up at him. He saw the
man's face turn slowly, following the swift progress of the boat
down-river. He saw the reflection of distant muzzle-flare wink in
the man's eye. Silence had fallen on the platform. Wéry bent his
head, listening.

(Drone, drone, drone and Thump. And crash.
Goodnight,
Mainz!
said the guns.)

And another noise, much closer: something on the river. An
oar, washing through the water. Wéry crouched lower. In the
dimness he could see his own hand in front of him. There were
white marks on the skin. He knew them well. They seemed to
float now, in the grisly light. They floated like dreams before his
eyes.

The creak of oars. Muttered voices from the boat. Would they
see the rope? The rope must be a dark line, still and quiet in the
downstream crook of the bastion. It would be far less easy to see
than a bustle of men and something disappearing furtively up the
wall. But the current would carry the boat to the downstream
side. They would come in close, because the flow was slower
under the bastions. They would want to row upstream right
against the wall. Where were they?

It was cold. His heart was beating. It would be colder still in
the water.

God! That one was close! It must have hit less than fifty paces
away. He had not heard it coming. He had felt it, though. He had
felt the city tremble as it hit. Was that why he was going? This was
a hopeless mission. Hope? Meaningless. Everything had been
betrayed. Brussels was betrayed, and Liège was fallen, and Paris
was sick and vengeful – a tyranny worse than the one it had
destroyed. And here in Mainz there was tyranny too, where there
should have been liberty and justice. There were dead on the
cobbles and dung in the streets and people who had been driven
out like animals to starve beyond the walls. Dreams were nightmares
now. The white marks on his hands were the scars of his
rage.

But it was not meaningless. Not yet. There was still a way to
go, into the river and beyond. There were still things to do, against
the men who had stolen the dream.

What else was there to live by?

Wash, wash, wash, went the oars on the river, diminishing. The
boat had begun its long labour upstream. The crew had not seen
the rope. The river beckoned to him.

'Maximilian,' he whispered. 'Thank you.' And he gripped his
friend's arm. 'Good luck.'

'Good luck.'

Then Wéry was standing, kicking off his battered shoes,
shaking off his greatcoat and feeling the cold touch of the air on
his skin. Maximilian Jürich held the rope out for him. He gripped
it, passed it around his back, and scrambled to the lip of the
parapet. There he teetered, facing in, leaning backward until the
rope bit into his back and wrists and his feet were braced against
the stone.

'Quickly!' someone hissed. He did not know who. They were
all dark shadows now – the shapes of head and shoulders, flat
against the night sky. He could not look for footholds. His bare
feet felt their way down the stone. White light flickered along
the wall. (God! What an irony if a cannon ball struck him now!)
But nothing happened. He did not even hear the passage of the
shot. He was nearing the water. Here it was – leaping up to
lick at his heel like a ghostly hound, wet and cold. He felt
for a foothold and did not find one. Deeper, maybe. Carry on
down. His feet slipped on weeds and suddenly he was up to his
armpits in wet, cold river, and bruising his shoulder at the same
time against the wall. Ugh! His feet found the muddy bed.
He stood there, chest deep, holding himself up with the aid
of the rope. He was already shaking. The Rhine sucked at his
body.

Goodnight, Mainz!
bellowed the guns. That was the Empire,
firing. That was everything he had first taken up arms to fight:
privilege and aristocracy and the smothering hold of church and
feudal dues; the power that had once been his enemy. That was
where he was going now.

Over there the gunners must see little of their target – perhaps
just the crown of spires, sprawling under the afterglow of sunset,
the burst of an incendiary shell like a sudden star, and the
occasional white flare as the garrison fired back on its
tormentors. They would hear nothing but their own batteries:
not the crash of shot landing; the weary jokes or cries; the
sobbing of those who had already passed so many nights like this
and could not bear one more. From over there, Mainz would
endure its hell in silence. And they would work calmly, by lamplight
and muzzle-flash, taking their bearings from the stakes and
markers, bringing more ammunition, handling the matches carefully
in the dark. There would be no hurry. A city is hard to miss,
and it cannot run away.

Goodnight, Mainz!

The flashes plagued his vision. He could not see the line of the
islands that Maximilian had pointed out to him. He could not see
the watchfires. He could only guess the direction to the Erzberg
camp.
Ask for an officer called Adelsheim. If you find him . . .

'Adelsheim.' That was all he had.

Maximilian might be looking down on him from the battlement.
Probably he was, waiting for the moment when the
tell-tale rope could be hauled back to safety. But Maximilian
could not help him any more. He could give no more directions.
He might as well be on the moon. Down here there was nothing
but darkness and gunfire, the coldness of the water, and the name.

The name might mean anything: any future at all.

Or none at all.

Now, the river.

Peace came after four years, and a string of disasters for the
Empire at the hands of a General Bonaparte far away in Italy.
And the early days of peace found Michel Wéry once again at
a river bank, with only the word 'Adelsheim' to guide him. But
this river was just a muddy stream running in the bottom of a
wooded valley. And the word was not a man any more.

Nor had anyone directed him, this time. Only his own
conscience had nagged and prodded him to make his way here
along the forest tracks of Germany. At each turning and mudhole
and rain-shower, it had grumbled at him:
Well, if you don't do
it, who will? And when?

He rode a handsome, dark-brown horse. On his head was a tall
military cap of green and black, with a white plume and a trailing
wing of green cloth. Under his greatcoat his uniform was
green and white. His moustache was trimmed to the fierce curl
of a light cavalryman, and a long, curved sabre hung from his
saddle.

Only his eyes were unchanged: sunk, and rimmed with brown
skin. They brooded on the water.

There was a ford here, and in the black mud at the water's
edge there was a stone, covered in a shroud of moss. He dismounted
to pull the moss away. Beneath it he found, as he had
expected, the letter A, cut in deep lines that were packed with
dirt.

A
for
Adelsheim.

It was an estate marker. But here, in the heart of the Empire,
it was also a frontier marker. On this unimpressive bank the
territory of the Prince-Bishop of Erzberg ended. On the other, a
different ruler held sway: a man who owned no lord but God and
the distant Emperor.

Adelsheim!
declared the revealed dirt importantly, and touched
the emptiness in his heart.

Wéry straightened. The estate from which the Adelsheim
family took its name appeared to be just one village and one
house, sitting glumly together in a mile-long cleft between two
great wooded hills. He could see all the way across it from where
he stood. The brown fragments of a small castle stood abandoned
on a shoulder of rock above the valley. And his horse, with the
callous disregard of an invading army, was already crossing
the border. It was standing in mid-stream, head turned back
towards him, as if wondering what he was waiting for.

He waded after it, scolding. The horse allowed him to
remount, lifting its head as he took the reins. He took a moment
to pat its neck and speak to it, not because it was misbehaving,
but because he did not want to go up to the house to say what
he had to say.

At length he nudged it to the far bank, and presumed to
invade another soil.

He passed fallow and barns, small herds and a trough that
leaned so drunkenly it could hardly serve its purpose any more.
He passed a gang of peasant men carrying axes and wearing broad
hats. Some were in clogs and some in bare feet, he saw. There was
a woman drawing water from the stream, and a ragged and barefooted
child watching over a flock of ducks. They stopped and
stared at him as he rode by.

The cottages had a mean and dilapidated look. None could
have had more than two rooms. Several roofs were in poor repair.
There was no sign of new work here, not a water channel or a
granary, just as there was no sign of clover crop or any other
modern farming method in the fields. The place smelled of dung
and damp and wood smoke.

The schoolhouse was empty. The children would be off at
their chores. The schoolmaster would be out working his
furrows, or doing whatever else he did to supplement his living.
And there was no one to tell pupils or schoolmaster or parents
what good there was to be had from education, which they
would never gain by drudgery in their fields.

The watermill was a sad thing: broken paddles and an illfitting
sluice-gate, the roof sunk and ragged, and no doubt
teeming with rats. What did the landlord charge his peasants for
using that?

There was no sign of life at the church.

Disappointment grew on him as he passed across the estate,
like the chilly wind that warned him of rain. Neglect met his eyes
wherever he looked. The Imperial Knights were famous for lacking
interest in their subjects. And it seemed that the Knight of
Adelsheim was one with his kind, whatever the views of his
second son had been.

So, my friend,
he thought.
Is this the home you spoke of fondly? Is
this where you were raised, in your little cot of privilege?

Now the house was coming into view again, as the road
curved by a grove of broad-leafed trees. It was a square block,
three stories high, perched on a low rise with a steep, wooded
slope at its back. The porch was supported by classic columns. On
each side of the door three tall windows stared solemnly down
across the bottom of the valley. The windows were stripped of
their paintwork by the weather. There were dark streaks on the
wall below a bad gutter. The roof, missing tiles and lead, sagged
like the back of a horse. Here was more neglect, and some
shortage of means too, no doubt. But in Wéry's eyes the neglect
of the house did not excuse what he had seen on the estate. Here,
sullen in its dignity, was Privilege again. He met it wherever he
went. The Knight of Adelsheim was lord of his tiny land, in this
land of little lords. And Wéry did not doubt that he wrung his
tired peasantry for every crust they had; the emptier a knight's
pockets, the stiffer his neck with pride.

'The guillotine loved stiff necks when I was in Paris, sir,' he
murmured. 'And I do not love aristocrats myself.'

He spoke aloud to steady himself, for his misgivings were
growing. The house hulked before him like a fat, grey gentleman
sitting for his portrait, ignoring his presence. Smoke was rising
from the chimneys. The shutters were open. The family was here.
Now he must announce himself to them.

There was nobody at the front of the building, where two
short flights of steps led up to the door. Only two great, fat angel faces,
carved above the stone lintel, looked down upon him.
Their faces were streaked with discoloration, and on one plump
cheek there hung a trail of bird-dropping, exactly as if the face
had wept a filthy tear that morning, and no one had bothered to
wipe it away.

Rain had begun to fall, out of the yellow-grey sky. It was
falling in grey veils that misted all the hills. It damped his
shoulders, and ran wet-cold fingers into the cracks between his
gloves and sleeves. He jumped from his horse at the very foot of
the steps. Of course there was no one to take the reins.

'Stay,' he told it. And then, as it looked reproachful:
'Stay,
damn
you!'

Up the steps he went, leaping in his great riding boots, two
and three at a time. At the door he removed the plumed hussar's
cap from his head, unbuttoned his greatcoat to show his green and
white cavalry uniform, and hammered with his cold fist at
the boards of the door.

He waited. After a while he beat upon it again.

He was about to knock a third time when he heard footsteps.

They came (clip, clip, clip,) across a stone floor within. He
waited for the door to open. It did not. Whoever it was must be
hovering just inside, as if they could not really believe they had
heard knocking, or that a man could be out here, sodden and
shivering waiting to be admitted.

Impatiently, he banged on the wood once more.

It opened immediately, onto a shadowy hall with high
ceilings. A short man in a frock coat and a powdered wig stood
in the doorway.

'I am Captain Michel Wéry'

When that brought no response, Wéry added:'Please tell the
Knight that I have come to see him. I am a friend of his son
Albrecht. I have the gravest possible news.'

The servant stood blinking at him. He wore no livery, so he
must rank highly among the house staff. He would already have
understood that Wéry was a foreigner. Now, behind that toad-like
face, he 'was trying to decide what to do. Wéry did not seem to
fit into any of the convenient categories of persons known and
unknown, admissible and inadmissible, that a servant of this house
was accustomed to dealing with. The enslaved mind needed cues,
clues of standing in the orders of the privileged, before it could
select the routine to follow.

'I am Captain Michel Wéry, of the Regiment of Hussars of
His Highness the Prince-Bishop of Erzberg. I wish to see the
Knight at once.'

Hussars.
He jerked the lapel of his greatcoat to show his white,
braided tunic and the green fur-lined jacket that hung from his
shoulder. And he stared at the little man with all the haughtiness
he could muster.

After all, no officer was admitted to the Prince's hussars unless
all four of his grandparents at least had their own noble pedigree.
(Or unless, for some mysterious reason, he enjoyed the
especial
favour of the Prince.)

It should have been enough. Surely it should have been. But
he saw the servant's brow furrow more deeply.

'The Knight does not receive visitors,' the man said. His voice
was plaintive as if he felt that any gentleman from Erzberg, even
a foreign one, should have known better than to put him in
such a dilemma.

'It is most urgent,' Wéry insisted. 'It concerns his son.'

The servant licked his lips. 'I will see if the Lady is able to
receive you.'

The Lady? The wife? The mother?

Lady Adelsheim! She was famous for her wit, and her forcefulness.
Even in the camps of the hussars Wéry heard about her.
He had no wish to meet her. He would infinitely have preferred
to deliver his news to a man, who in the crisis would act with a
man's restraint. What was the matter with Albrecht's father?

This might be so much more difficult. 'Will the Knight
not . . .?' he began.

Plainly, from the servant's look, the Knight would not.

'Very good,' Wéry said in resignation. 'If you would please
announce me.'

The servant was still standing in the doorway. He was waiting
for something. After a moment Wéry realized what it must
be.

'I do not have a card,' he said. He saw the man's eyebrows
shoot up.

'I have told you my name and my business,' he snarled. 'Show
me in!'

And he was shown in, to a large, elaborately tiled hall with
pillars and an elusive smell. He stamped gracelessly across it in the
wake of the frock coat. His agitation was growing, and because of
it he had become angry as well – angry at his own posturing and
the other man's deference.

Man was born free!
he thought, as he handed over his coat, hat
and gloves. And no race exhibited their chains with more pride
than the Germans; and no German more than a servant! They
had their brains, as well as their sense of status, from their masters,
and would never think for themselves. So ask, and they would
refuse you; but demand, and they would obey. Try showing them
that you considered them an equal, speak informally, joke with
them, and you would be met with blank, affronted looks.
Call them 'Citizen' and they would be horrified!

The servant opened the door to a small waiting-parlour to
one side of the hall.

And there He was.

There he was:Albrecht von Adelsheim, in a full-length portrait
to one side of an empty fireplace. In that unremarkable little
room he seemed to glow from the dark canvas.

His stance was formal, his uniform so neat and white it might
never have seen a day's campaign. But it was the true Albrecht.
His big, liquid smile was on his lips, beaming into the room. His
eyes shone with laughter. They mocked the vain insistence of
portraiture that its subjects should show poise and calm. And his
eyes were on Wéry as he came through the door, as if he had just
laughed that laugh and said – as he had done so many times –
Hey, Michel!

'Hey, Michel, did you ever look at someone? No, but truly look?'

Or:
'Hey, Michel! Still in bed, you hound?'

Oh yes! When he had been half-dead with sleep and drink and
misery:
'Hey, Michel! Still in bed, you hound? Mother of God, you look
worse than when we pulled you out of the river! You can swim in water,
my friend, but it's harder to swim in wine. It's the wine that swims in
you, ha ha . . .!

'. . .
Listen to me. I said
listen
to me . . . Citizen Wéry! You will
please stand to attention! I am about to recite your precious Rights of
Man. Very well then, you. may
lie
to attention. Hands by your sides, sir
–
not over your ears. Ready? "The aim of every political association is
the preservation of the natural and imprescriptible Rights of Man. These
rights are Liberty, Property, Safety and Resistance to Oppression. "Am I
correct? Good. So
where
does it say you have the right to
lie down
when I am
talking
to you . . .?'

Oh, that laugh! And the punch to the shoulder that had made
all men equal. Whenever things had been at their worst – hunger,
sickness, mud, some stupid quarrel about fodder in the horselines,
then:
Hey, you fellows!

Hey, Michel!

The voice was fading. It dwindled in his mind as the surprise
of the portrait receded. He was looking at paint, and that was all:
just a thin layer of paint on canvas, spread there by an artist
cunning enough to catch the spirit of his subject, even as he
observed all the formalities expected of him. And now the artist
was gone, and the man he had painted was gone too.

Wéry turned his back on the portrait. He spoke to the air.

'My horse needs attention.'

The servant bowed and withdrew.