Reign of Fear: Story of French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars (Cantiniére Tales) (27 page)

We passed Savoy, the former kingdom, land France had captured from Sardinia-Piedmont some years past. We took the roads southwest, avoiding the
grand Alps and stubborn Piedmont beyond them, ruled from fabulous Turin, all refusing the revolutionary armies a victory. We aimed for the famous Nice on the coast, where some forty thousand dispirited Frenchmen pretended to make war on Piedmont and Austria.

In a
short week, we were nearing out long-awaited goal. Marcel spotted and hailed some dusty hussars, light cavalrymen on their way to the Army of Italy. One, a man with cadenettes, long braids on the sides of his head, stopped. Marcel asked for news. ‘Hello, my friend. Do you know if the army is still attacking Piedmont? I have been out since early spring. Hitting its head against the bastards again, no doubt? I heard there had been battles, before I left, but little more.’

The man grinned. ‘Actually, sergeant, we are back from escorting prisoners. The old dog, general Dumbertion secured
the road to Genoa, and even the impossible Alpine passes, and we took thousands of prisoners.’ Marcel looked like a giant hammer had struck him.

Laroche, insolently lounging in the wagon snickered. ‘Sergeant, did you not tell us Dumbertion is senile and pisses his pants day and night?’

Marcel waved his arm lazily at Laroche. ‘Did he…?’

The hussar laughed and drank some wine from a gourd. ‘Well. The thing is that
the general is governed by Saliceti, the people’s representative from Paris, and the other one, I cannot remember his name. And they,’ he lowered his voice conspiratorially, ‘are ordered around like privates by the brigadier general of artillery. Buonaparte.’

It was the first time I heard the name of our future emperor
.

‘Really?’ Marcel said. ‘Who the hell…’

‘A Jacobin, wrote some pamphlet or other. Florid looking, sickly, but when he talks about war… A beast!’ The hussar mimicked a fierce bear growling at us, and laughed as we looked at him carefully. ‘True, I am not mad, all true!’ he claimed. The hussar took some stolen smoked ham that Marcel offered with his bayonet. He continued. ‘We,’ he said, meaning Buonaparte, ‘felt that we have to secure Genoa. That Republic has been faltering in its loyalties since the bloody Brits have been blockading their port. So, the general Buonaparte had Saliceti tell the leader of this rabble what to do. Then Dumbertion had general Masséna take two brigades, on April 16
th
I think, and we swept past Monte Tanardo, and Ormea? Yes, that is it. Ormea.’

Marcel smiled and looked at us. ‘Hussars are a bit slow,’ he mouthed and gave the man some more ham. Slow or not, his pelisse was a fine, fur trimmed thing, and I had never seen a man with tighter pants. I blushed
as I admired him and saw Laroche grin at me as if this was a proof of his reluctance at working with me. He was an annoying man.

The hussar took the food
gratefully, not unlike a starving dog and continued. ‘Then we turned, and drove to the flank of a Piedmont army, and while the general Dumbertion was marching from Niece, those men surrendered. They were like bloated frogs without legs. We killed some.’ The man patted his glittering sabre, and another young hussar joined him, smelling dinner. The latter one gave us some cold coffee on a dusty wineskin and took the last of our ham with a smile.

‘So, Piedmont is…?’ Marcel asked.

‘Devoid some brigades,’ the latter hussar said, chomping on the ham. ‘By May, we held the watershed of the Maritime Alps, and those fucking passes over the Alps. ‘

‘He told me,’ Marcel said, nodding at the first man, who was upset
about the newcomer stealing the remains of his delicious fare.

‘What now, then?’ asked Cleft, confused. ’No battles for us?’

The hussars looked at each other, smiling. The first one quipped: ‘sergeant, that man new to the army? I like his uniform, shiny. Has he pissed in it yet?’

Marcel grinned. ‘Not yet, he will. Full of Republic, he is. However, I liked his question. What is going on?’

The second hussar took off as a trumpet rang in the distance, but the first one stayed, appraising our dwindling food sacks. ‘Well, we were going to destroy the rest of Piedmont, they have some forty thousand men in arms still, and Buonaparte wanted the Army of the Alps to co-operate with us to disrupt them. I do not know. We took the Barricades, those horrible forts with the bridges in the mountains, and I know not how we did that, but then it all stopped. Carnot said, “no” to Buonaparte and Dumbertion.’

‘Carnot? The war minister?’ Marcel said, but nodded before the hussar elaborated. Everyone knew Carnot.
Except Henriette and I.

The hussar’s eyes settled on me, and his jaw fell open. ‘Well! That is a lovely apple you have there! Can I have a bite?’ He said and threw me a kiss. Mother did not smile, and Marcel patted her arm
calmingly.

The hussar saw this and laughed. He bowed in apology to mother.
‘No offence. None at all. Carnot is worried about Austrians in Italy. Does not dare to move. Now, sergeant? The army dilly-dallies. Buonaparte is in Genoa, fuming about the delay. We took the prisoners to the camp, and now escort the people’s representatives. They are riding back and forth to Paris, trying to force Carnot to change his mind. We wait for the Austrians or Piedmont to react, and then we will likely be whipped. Yet, who knows? Perhaps the man we escort got the permission to execute citizen Buonaparte’s great plan and we do the whipping again. Hope so! I hate to wait for Carnot to make up his mind.’

‘Who are you escorting?’ Marcel asked, and the hussar nodded down the road, where more hussars were approaching at a gallop. They were dusty
as miners and grim to look at. With them rode a man in formerly clean civilian clothes, his eyes curiously close to each other, his wig flapping in the air. He looked thin and pale, his cheeks hollow.

The hussar was frowning. ‘That is the other one of the peoples representatives, a famous man, I just cannot remember… Saliceti is the other one, but this one…’ Then his eyes brightened. ‘Augustin! Robespierre.’

Mother and I froze. Gilbert’s new master was this one’s brother. He was coming from Paris. He rode by and the hussar left with a wave. Marcel glanced at us. He knew about our past, and we saw his eyes harden as he gazed at the civilian passing us. Robespierre gazed back at us, and I slid down to the bottom of the wagon.

Cleft tried to help me up but one of the twins kicked him. Even th
ey saw I wanted to be hidden. Laroche nudged Cleft. ‘Let her be. She does not want to be seen by that vulture.’

Cleft glowered at me. ‘I thought you said only one Jacobin is looking for you?’

‘That one Jacobin has high friends,’ Laroche said, carefully and I nodded in accordance.

‘Marcel,’ Henriette said, ‘what…’

‘I know the captain,’ he said, though there was a note of concern in his voice. ‘Towards Nice!’ he called, trying to look cheerful, but he was worried.

We passed the southern Savoy, rolling forward resolute
ly, our horses pulling us along to the beautiful, apparently boundless sea.

I fell in love with the sea as I had hoped I would.

Cleft glanced at me and smiled. He had been right. Air was warm, so warm, but the sea brought a breeze of unfathomable, crisp, pleasant odors of salt and I sat in the wagon, letting it whip my hair around. I could not tear my eyes off it. It was lovely and vast, hiding secrets and adventures. I had seen Alps, reaching up to the sky, the uneven woods and giant rock formations painting the very image of wilderness untamed, but the sea, love, was a sight I never forgot. Marcel pointed out white puffs in the serene, green, and blue water. British frigates, hemming the army between Piedmont and the sea. Again, Cleft smiled and I squeezed his hand briefly, so happy I was. His eyes brightened and I knew I should not encourage him, but I was happy and cared little for anything else.

Reaching humid Nice, and finding only a skeleton crew of a garrison in the vast barracks areas amidst palms and beautiful hills, we continued to ride towards Genoa.

On the way, we rode past a crumbling former convent, where heaps of bloated bodies were stacked behind the garden wall. ‘Look ahead, boys,’ Marcel said nonchalantly. They did not. The corpses were stripped, black and blue, and the moustaches stuck out of corpulent flesh in a bizarre way. Outside the convent, men were lounging, but from the open doors we saw many wounded. Piedmont had fought hard, apparently. Most of the wounded inside the charnel house would not survive. Men were missing limbs and some were blind, their bandages festering bundles of decay. The doctors amputated and tried to find bandages, we saw them running around trying to find more. Apparently, there were neither medicine nor spirits to dull the pain of the hapless patients for there was a constant cacophony of nearly unholy screams. We had seen such sights in Paris before, briefly and on a small scale, but here, the stink from the hospital made our bellies churn. Marcel lowered his voice, as we passed the building. ‘Do not let me, Henriette dear, ever enter those doors. Rather hide me and take care of my wounds out in the tents. Death visits us everywhere, but I think it lives in the hospitals.’

‘I’ll take care of you, if you should,’ she said.
‘But if you die? What then?’

Marcel kissed her, holding Henriette familiarly to him. He gestured towards the
road. ‘I will not, the humorous devil has not wanted me before, so why now? However, if he does and I do fall, marry another. There are good men with the army. You will find a bewildering lot when we find our unit. The men you see will sulk easily, complain from the slightest setback, and need gentle nurturing as a child. Give them a pat, and the soldiers will wag their tails furiously and endure harshest of trials. You will be like them. Army is like that. One day they are ready to mutiny and to shoot the hapless officers, the next day they would storm impregnable hell itself for glory, and hopefully loot. And the food. Food, and women. You will fit in. So, if I die, marry my friend and he will be much like me.’

‘She is not a prize…’ I started and Marcel ruffled my hair again
, calming me. He knew. I sighed. ‘Will there be a battle?’ I asked

‘We might see some action, still,’ Marcel said, somberly. ‘We are skirmishers. Some will be sharpshooters, in the carabineer company. Left might make one. He is a good shot, and dumb enough to go first. Nevertheless, in a battle, we all will go out, and shoot in pairs at the masses of the Piedmont or Austrian soldiers, who will be standing thick as the wine barrels in the winery. Do not worry, they will fire
sharp volleys, but at the unlucky men behind us, the ones in columns. They won’t waste shots on scattered men.’ Marcel smiled wistfully, and I knew he had lied. Even skirmishers died to frustrated volleys and other skirmishers. And to cavalry and cannon.

We trekked down the road near the coast. We passed hills and the land called “The Barricades,” series of high hills,
near mountains, deadly bridges, and small flowery valleys north of Col de l’Argentiéres. Then, one day Cleft looked at high mountains. ‘Col di Tende.’ He knew a lot, having read and studied.

‘Indeed,’ said Marcel, ‘and I hear our troops are north of Savona. Two days away.’ I admired the sea, the lush coast with its hills running with
finest of greenery, delicate villages, and great, ancient castles. Laroche would leave the wagon each evening and come back with a juicy hare, plump eggs, hens that made the eggs, and once a thin goat we let go, mocking Laroche mercilessly, but he claimed a thin goat tastes better than a fat one. We ate well, for the French army had not bivouacked here for a while. Then, finally, after two days, we saw the beautiful Savona and it’s church towers to our right and Marcel, asking guidance from the many soldiers we regularly ran into, stopped us in the middle of a flowery field.

A group of motley dressed dragoon outriders accosted us. Marcel asked for directions to his demi-brigade, and the dragoon officer lazily pointed at a hilly area to our north. By evening, we passed rows of shabby, self-built shelters, lines of clothes hanging from ropes. Men cheered Marcel. He winked.
‘Good boys. The officers are in the south row. Cantiniére just north of them. But we will see, soon, what you will be.’

‘You missed the war!’ s
houted someone from the dark. Marcel made a rude sign. We had to let go of the cart for the night. Marcel let a wagon master’s assistant take it to the other vehicles. As we stepped down amidst the strangely glowing eyes and shadowy people in the dark evening, I felt naked and bumped into Laroche. He was not smiling as he regarded the ragged groups of men lounging tiredly, gambling lazily and who were looking at the newcomers disdainfully, for while their gear while already threadbare in places, it was new as a king’s compared to the others.

‘They don’t have tents?’ I asked.

‘No,’ Laroche said. ‘We will soon look as dirty as they do. Do not mind it. We will get you shelter, love.’ He winked at me in a condescending way. He glanced over my shoulder, grinned, slapped my rear, and ambled off.

‘Mother and I will find our own, thank you,’ I told his back, and glanced behind me to see
Cleft stare at Laroche with fury. Laroche loved to tease Cleft and the talented fat man knew Cleft had feelings for me. The poor fool was about to open his mouth, but I stopped him, put a finger on his lips.