Battlesaurus (6 page)

And it is moving, convulsing, squirming on the cobbles.

“Jean, go now with your cousin,” his mother says. “Willem, stay.” She points at the abomination.

“Kill it, bury it, and clean that up,” she says.

“Yes, Mother,” he says.

“Kill them all,” she says.

*   *   *

She comes to him later and the redness is gone from her cheeks. Her eyes are soft. “Perform your miracles at the f
ê
te. But only little ones. Tricks that any boy could learn. Do not show off the full range of your skills.”

“Yes, Mother,” he says.

 

LAFFREY

Major Thibault marches at the rear of the column as the road twists and turns up into the French Alps. They are making for the capital, Paris. It is not much of a column. Little more than a thousand men, and only a few horses.

Napol
é
on's garrison from Elba has been joined by soldiers from the fort at Antibes where they landed on the coast. They have been marching for many days. The road narrows as it climbs into the mountains, and patches of ice have turned to a constant sheet that coats the road with white and makes it treacherous underfoot. Even the sturdy mules slip and stumble, and although Thibault rode one for part of the journey, here it is too dangerous.

They brought two cannon from the fort at Antibes, but the weapons slithered from the road many days ago and have been left lying in a frozen gully. So too their carriages. Much worse is the fate of their horses, their hooves unable to find traction on the icy road. The horses are splendid animals, fearless in the face of musket and cannonfire, hardened on the battlefields of Europe. But too many times on this deadly climb Thibault has heard the agonized scream of an injured animal, followed by the sound of a musket. Then silence.

Napol
é
on's escape from the island was straightforward.
L'Inconstant
, a brig hired by Thibault, met them at Cavo, then sailed for the French mainland.

Already the light in the sky is dimming as the day draws to a close. The sun is an orange ball, looking for a place to hide amid the mountains.

They crest a steep rise onto a small plateau close to the village of Laffrey. The ground is flatter here, and although still icy, less treacherous.

The low sun throws their orange-rimmed shadows out across a frozen lake to the right of the road. An early-spring frosting of ice, nothing more, not strong enough to bear the weight of men or horses. The lake hems them in against the mountainside. It is a good place for an ambush. Even as Thibault thinks this, the column comes to a halt. Word quickly rustles down the line: soldiers block the path ahead.

“It was to be expected,” Thibault says to the man at his side. “The garrison at Grenoble would surely have been alerted to our route.”

“Then we will march forward and drive these vermin from the path,” Count Cambronne says.

“Might I respectfully remind you, General, of our orders,” Thibault says. “These soldiers are our brothers, merely doing their duty.”

“That is
Napol
é
on
's opinion,” Cambronne says.

“They have chosen their arena well,” Thibault says. “We are pressed into this narrow pass, while they have the luxury of the meadow.”

To their left, woods rise steeply in tides of snow-covered trees. To their right is the smooth ice of the lake. With such a narrow front the column will be able to bring only a few muskets into the battle at any time, whereas the Grenoble troops can spread out across the width of the meadow, bringing many guns to bear on the narrow road.

“We make formation and march forward,” Cambronne says.

“We would march to our deaths,” Thibault says. He stands high on his stirrups and raises a spyglass to his eye.

“You forget,” Cambronne says, raising his own spyglass, “we march with God on our side.”

“God may be on our side,” Thibault says, “but the devil has more muskets.”

“Shoulder your muskets or be fired upon.” The voice carries to them from a man on horseback in the front ranks that face them.

“A major,” Cambronne says, lowering the spyglass. He snorts, as if to rid himself of a bad smell. “I will not waste my time. You go, Thibault. Tell him to get out of our way.”

Thibault moves slowly through his own lines, which ripple to let him through. These are the Old Guard. The elite of the French army, loyal to their exiled emperor. Veterans of Italy, Russia, and the Peninsular War. There is a constant rustling sound as the men feel for paper cartridges in their pouches.

“Shoulder your muskets,” the Grenoble major demands again, but stops as Thibault appears at the front of the column.

“Whom do I address?” Thibault asks.

“Major Lansard of the fifth infantry regiment.”

Another officer, in a colonel's uniform, also on horseback, moves forward through the ranks behind the major. “Tell your men to shoulder their muskets.”

“Like you, we are soldiers of the French army,” Thibault says. “We are not enemies. I beg you to stand aside.”

“I cannot do that,” Lansard says. “I am set to my duty. Retire or be fired upon.”

“Your duty to whom?”

“To the king,” Lansard says.

“Then let me talk to him, face-to-face. I presume the king travels with you?” Thibault says. “Or does that plump piglet yet wallow in his trough and preen before mirrors in Paris?”

“Retire, monsieur, I cannot ask again,” Lansard says.

“You have spine, Major, but we will not retire,” Thibault says.

He begins to move forward. Behind him the soldiers of the Old Guard advance at the same pace.

“Advance no farther,” Lansard shouts.

“Make ready,” the colonel shouts. The muskets of the Grenoble men are raised into the air.

Thibault is within pistol range now, and Lansard draws his sidearm and cocks it, but leaves it pointing at the sky.

“Present,” the colonel shouts, and his men lower the muzzles of their weapons to aim at Thibault and the Old Guard behind him.

Thibault senses rather than sees the ripple in the lines behind him and turns, expecting to see Cambronne, but it is the prisoner of Elba who is making his way forward.

A man of average height, but dwarfed by the tall men of the Old Guard. One hand tucked into his waistcoat, which protrudes, potbellied. His unpowdered hair falls to his shoulders. His nose is royal, his eyes are deep-set, his complexion is sallow.

The guns of the Grenoble men waver, then lower as they recognize the familiar shape in his customary gray greatcoat and bicorne hat.

From somewhere in the rear of the column a voice calls out,
“Vive l'empereur!”
The cry is taken up by others. “Long live the emperor!”

There is a clatter as muskets drop to the ground and suddenly Napol
é
on is gone, disappearing amid a whirlwind of blue uniforms as the soldiers of Grenoble surround and embrace him.

“Take up your eagles again, for your emperor has returned and France shall once more rise to greatness!” Thibault shouts.

In shock and confusion the Grenoble colonel turns his mount and canters away, with just one disbelieving glance back over his shoulder.

The crowd parts and Lansard emerges on foot, the soldiers moving away from him as he approaches.

He draws his sword, touches it briefly to his hat, then reverses it, offering it hilt-first to Napol
é
on.

Napol
é
on takes the sword, but immediately reverses it and offers it back to Lansard.

“You, Major, had the spine to stand against Napol
é
on!” he says. “I am sure such courage would find a place in the emperor's army.”

Lansard says nothing, bowing his head.

Napol
é
on nods. “How many men have you?”

“Six thousand in the garrison,” Lansard says. “And four thousand more in Draguignan.”

“Then tomorrow we march for Paris,” Napol
é
on says.

 

THE BLACKSMITH

Fran
ç
ois awakes on the eighth of March, three days before the f
ê
te. He has been sleeping for five days.

He had lapsed back into a stupor by the time they got him to Madame Gertruda's.

She announced that his brain was swollen and there was nothing she could do beyond lowering his body temperature and treating him with herbs and potions to keep him asleep until the swelling subsided. She kept him covered with damp towels in a room with the windows open, and although he shivered terribly, she said this was for the best.

She also said that a surgeon in Brussels might be able to drill holes in his head to relieve pressure, but that it was a risky procedure.

In any case his father refused to allow it. He had seen the results of such operations in the battlefield surgeon's tent, and although Madame Gertruda assured him there had been great advances in such medicine, Father Ambroise insisted that prayer, plus Madame Gertruda's treatments, would heal his only son.

Willem's mother said that he was foolish, and was risking the life of his son, but she said this only to Willem.

A hunting party armed with swords and muskets, led by Jean's father, set off to find the firebird, without success.

*   *   *

Fran
ç
ois remains at Madame Gertruda's for the next three days under the constant care of the healer—and H
é
lo
ï
se, who fusses over him as if he were a newborn.

Jean and Willem visit him every day, but find him sullen and withdrawn. He speaks little and when he does speak it is usually to God. Even Jean cannot reach him.

“Give Fran
ç
ois time,” Willem says. “It has only been a week since the accident.”

“He is not himself,” Jean says.

On that, Willem thinks Jean is wrong. Fran
ç
ois is still himself. He is everything he was before the accident, only more so. More prone to moods and brooding like his mother. More boastful. More pious and devout.

On the second Saturday of March, the day of the f
ê
te, Madame Gertruda finally declares Fran
ç
ois well enough to return home.

In celebration, Jean and Willem present him with a new ax to replace the one he lost in the river.

Willem paid for the iron and Jean tempered it to steel, hammering it to a fine edge. The best ax-head in Europe, he declared when it was finished. Willem carved the haft for the ax from a sturdy length of straight-grained oak, with guidance from Monsieur Antonescu, an old, blind, Romanian woodchopper, who selected the bough by touch for its strength and resilience, and guided Willem in the carving.

When they give him the ax, Fran
ç
ois looks at it dully and does not offer gratitude for their efforts.

*   *   *

The day of the f
ê
te is sunny and cheerful, and so it has been for every f
ê
te since Willem has lived in the village. The weather is warming toward the spring equinox and already the days and nights are of almost equal length.

Preparations begin at first light with children of the village gathering wood for the bonfire. This tradition goes back hundreds of years, although in recent times adults in the village carefully place random piles of wood in convenient locations not too far from the saur-fence to make it easier for the children.

This year an adult with a musket stands by at all times, and another armed man remains on alert at the saur-gate. The firebird has not been sighted near the village nor found in the forest.

By noon, the preparations for the feast are well under way. Another tradition, peculiar to Gaillemarde, is the fasting that precedes the feast. There is no bread for breakfast or the noonday meal. It is as if the villagers are to empty their stomachs to make room for what is to follow.

Willem and his mother have spent all the morning baking. He is collecting water from the river for the cleaning up when Monsieur Lejeune, Jean's father, sees him and waves him over. Willem crosses the dusty cobblestones to the smithy with more than a little trepidation. He has not spoken to Jean's father since the accident, and is expecting a weighty rebuke. He is afraid Monsieur Lejeune will hold him responsible for putting his son in danger, and for what happened to his nephew. Jean's father is a burly, coarse man, the skin of his hands and face turning black from years of blacksmithing. Most of the children in the village are wary and respectful of him. He is not slow with the back of his hand or the toe of his boot on the rump of a wayward child.

He was a cuirassier in Napol
é
on's Grande Armée. A horse-mounted soldier with armored breastplates and back plates, armed with a heavy straight sword and two pistols. Only the largest of men were chosen as cuirassiers, and they were mounted on the largest horses. Monsieur Lejeune was one of the elite, and he has been hardened in the fires of battle the way iron is tempered to steel in his forge.

The smithy is usually oppressively hot, even with all the windows wide open and the large open doors at the front and rear. But today the fire is not lit. The forge in the center of the smithy is cold. The fat brick chimney above it is lifeless, where usually curls of escaping smoke decorate its sides. Today is the day of the f
ê
te.

Although Jean's father is not working, he still wears his heavy black apron, as if by taking it off he would shed part of himself. It is so unusual to see him without it that Willem would not be surprised if he wears it to bed.

Monsieur Lejeune says nothing as Willem enters, and instead disappears through a back door, to his house on the other side of the street. Willem sets his pails of water down and waits.

Even without the fire, the smithy smells of charcoal and carbonized iron. Tacked to high beams around the smithy are rows of old horseshoes, perhaps for luck, or to ward off evil spirits, but Monsieur Lejeune is not a deeply religious or superstitious man. A set of large metal rings for wagon wheels is stacked against one wall and a number of sharp metal spikes are clumped against the edge of the forge. On hooks around the forge hang many sets of heavy metal tongs of varying shapes and sizes. A large tub of dirty water sits near the anvil, which is mounted on an old tree stump. It is a two-horned anvil, which, when silhouetted by the flames of the fire behind it, looks like a square-headed demon.