Reign of Fear: Story of French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars (Cantiniére Tales) (36 page)

‘The cart in the middle! Your mother must drive the wagon to the middle! It’s hopelessly small square, by God! Pray! That is half a division up there!’ the leader said desperately as he started to push men into action. I rushed to mother, who was guiding the wagon forward while cursing at the milling horsemen who were steering their fine horses to the gentle downhill, screaming uncannily, their horses gathering speed.

‘Hold fire, hold until at forty feet!’ Henri screamed
, his square jaw set in desperate grin. ‘Curse the colonel, boys, and imagine it is the fat Chambon ambling down on a donkey, when you aim your muskets. Cannot miss, lads! Bayonets, quickly!’ They laughed darkly, pissing themselves as they were shuffling around us, pulling out their long bayonets. Their corporals were forming not a square, but an oblong around the wagon, where some men climbed, the better shots. The men were in double line around us, the first rank kneeling, and I grinned like a maniac at the confused twins, who were standing next to each other, large men amidst smaller ones, dumb but brave. I smiled sadly at Cleft who ignored me as he was praying and that made me pray for Laroche, who was shaking, hysterically checking the bayonet, kneeling on the first rank. Charles and Skins were on the wagon and Charles finally smiling at me, for the danger on one’s life is the great balancer of grudges and doubts. He shook his head at me, forlorn, hopeless, but brave. ‘Stay down, and if we die, just surrender. It won’t be pleasant, but you might live.’ Henriette nodded in agreement and tried to grab me, but I ignored her. The uhlans were now speeding downhill in neat lines, their horrid lances swaying as they leveled the tips towards us, and they would be trying to break our formation.

‘Jeanette!’ mother screamed. ‘Get down to the bottom of the wagon!’ I did not.

‘Hold!’ Henri shouted above the noise of the galloping horses. ‘We will fillet them, so stop shaking and shitting your pants! Ready!’

The rittmeister, I saw, was screaming as well. Looking back to the other hill, an officer, a wachtmeister, I later learned, was doing the same to the uhlans coming from the other side. Then, the horses reached the ground before us, some sixty feet away.

Some men fired, some hit their marks, for few horses fell, an uhlan screamed, but the rest held and kept coming. ‘Hold the fire!’ the officers and harried sergeants yelled. Henri had bitten through his cigar and I saw the lieutenant facing the other side, his sword in the air. The horses milled forward, the Poles screaming in terrified anger and undaunted determination, trumpet blew, spear tips glittered, and then, when the horses were so very close, Henri screamed. ‘Fire!’ And they fired.

Muskets belched, smoke and fire filled the air, and it looked like dozen horses stumbled, spilling men. I saw through the dust how other horses stumbled on the dead and injured horses, but suddenly countless uhlans were milling around us, probing us with their long lances, while the musket with bayonet was a very short spear. The men in the wagon were loading, their eyes filled with terror as the madly brave Poles charged the line, bending it, breaking it in places, horses falling on men, desperate men falling wounded by the lances and bayonets and the light infantry had no time to reload
. We fought and died like savages. It was utter chaos.

A Pole was pulled down from the saddle, his lance stuck on a crying man’s belly, and another threw the lance at Breadcrumbs, who went down with a slashed leg, howling. Bayon
ets flashed at the horses, some that shied away, but the Poles were milling around us, thrusting, glittering, ferocious eyes anticipating the dream of cavalry; destruction of an enemy infantry unit.

I saw the
rittmeister riding around the Poles, yelling at them to push in, and they did. Somehow, the men were still fighting all around the embattled wagon. The rittmeister saw my face, and surprised, smiled. I could not help but smile back. I pulled at Charles’s coat behind me in the wagon; he was just done loading, and his mad eyes scanned me under his leather helmet. ‘That is the officer,’ I said, pointing at the Pole. Charles nodded, aimed carefully, but then many of the uhlans pulled pistols, and shot. At least ten light infantrymen went down, the horses pushed thought the holes and their riders pulled sabers, and we would have died, had it not been for the 7
th
Hussar Regiment, of which a squadron sprang to our help.

A trumpet rang, urgently, violently and we heard yells, and some words were in French. The Poles turned from
their near finished kill and looked up to the hillsides, astonished at the appearance of the mad hussars. I saw them; milling down the hill, horses churning dirt, mustached faces grinning savagely.

A hussar, Marie, is a creature created to rend the heart o
f a woman. When an infantryman is ragged, carries his haphazard equipment around him like a foul, deadly tramp, a hussar is a glorious sight. Today, these were men in the business of killing, making them fey to look at and their fancy clothing even more excellent, like that of the knights of old. They say the Hungarians wore the fanciful uniforms formerly, being light cavalrymen with tight pants, high boots, brilliant coats, sabertaches finely made, tall, bizarre shakos or bearskins; they were the bravest of the brave. The French version was no less so. They were born brave. At least they claimed so, but I know no men in the army fought more duels than the hussars did. Their entire splendor buried the fact that they were small men likely to die young.

The green dressed Poles tried to create a
defensive line, pulling their discarded lances from the ground, some jumping down to fetch them. The hussars were fast, though. Sabers in the air, the third squadron of 7
th
Hussars sprang down, yelling like devils in flames. The rittmeister of the uhlans was screaming at the Poles, but they were tightly packed, and had hard time turning to fight the enemy, and Henri shouted at his thirty, bleeding men to fight. I grabbed a gun from a fallen man, and started to load it, so did Henriette, for we had hope.

Then the hussars hit the Poles, some dying to uhlan pistols shots, one speared through the belly by a lance, but when those small men got close to the uhlans, the butchery began. I saw
swift sabers spring up, and come down like lightning, stabbing with the point, and many saddles were emptied. I saw a desperate officer of the uhlans draw some twenty men together to charge back, and I fired the musket at the man. He slumped on his saddle; I saw that before I fell to the bloody mud by the surprisingly strong blast. By the time I got up, Henri and his wild men were hammering and stabbing at some fleeing uhlans, which the hussars promptly chased.

We cheered ourselves hoarse. I hurt while cheering, for I had hit my head on a stone. Looking around, I saw
terrible carnage. Dozens of bodies, many unmoving were strewn about, and there were guts and blood all over the ground. Horses were neighing in pain, men were crying pitifully and screaming in incomprehensible pain and I smelled piss and shit, and saw a young uhlan vomit blood under the wagon. I got up, and cried, for Boulton was wounded to chest, gasping while trying to draw breath, and the twins were dead, lying almost peacefully next to each other, both apparently shot and I mourned silently as the men began to drag our helpless wounded aside. Henriette pulled at me, her face grave. She made a quick check on my head and smiled happily as I was going to survive. Then she sobered. ‘Marcel says we must loot the bodies and help the wounded. So, pull yourself together, girl. I will look to the poor wounded; you loot. Take this pistol. Some of the Poles are alive, and might want to take someone with them. Money, jewelry and things we can sell. Pipes and tobacco, especially. Find them and take care, love.’

I nodded, took the pistol, and cocked it. I made my way to nearest corpse unoccupied by French looters, and began to pull at the clothes of
the corpse. But it was not a corpse yet. The man was alive. He was groaning weakly and I gulped, getting up. ‘Jeanette!’ Henriette yelled, observing me. ‘No time to be queasy!’ Shrugging apologetically, I rifled through his few pockets. His eyes glinted in helpless anger and hopeless fear and I kept telling him I was sorry. I left him and took to the gory corpses, the ones obviously dead and from them, I took good boots, small weapons, few fine watches, strong drink, and some coin. At first, I felt dirty and angry, but soon, it became routine. Laroche suddenly crouched before me. ‘The seams. Always look at the seams. They hide coin there. And hats. These men carry their retirement fund with them. They hide it. No different from a travelling peasant. Here.’ He took hold of a wounded horse and grunted as he searched the saddle while the horse was struggling to get away. He took a knife and opened a suspicious seam of a saddle, producing some coins and a pearl. ‘I will keep these, but I took many pipes and a lot of Spanish tobacco to the wagon. I will teach Charles to help, if he doesn’t already know. Right is….’

‘I know,’ I said, feeling miserable. I looked at their pallid faces and felt sorry for them. They had family, perhaps, somewhere.

‘Hard life this, Jeanette’ Laroche said, and patted my back. ‘I know you can do it. Be careful with them. Some will fight this, some think they are still in battle.’ Laroche was apparently happy to have survived and his sarcasm and nasty nature was momentarily subdued.

‘Thanks,’ I told him and pulled off a pair of boots and carried them to the
already crowded wagon. In the distance the hussars were still chasing after the uhlans, save for some who chased after the horses, and others still joined us to loot. I got up, and saw the wachtmeister I had shot lying not far, his leg still caught on the stirrup, the horse glancing around lazily, making small sounds of confused displeasure. I walked over, hardened at the horror and pulled the foot off the stirrup, and started to rummage the body. I saw Cleft pray over a man’s corpse and I saw Henri pulling at a wounded uhlan, leaving him with some kind words, the man laying on his side. Henri’s mauled cigar was still in his mouth.

I was startled as a man laughed gaily near me. I grabbed the pistol, but it was a hussar.

I looked up to see a man so handsome, that my breath stopped. Now Henri, with his grey eyes and arrogant looks had swept my breath away and I had also been smitten by his nonchalant bravery and apparent gallantry. This man, Marie, his red hair hanging low behind his back, was gorgeous to look at. He had cadenettes, thin braids on both sides of his face, which was smothered in enemy blood. He was not tall, no hussar was, but his chest was broad, his strong legs bulged under the tight, embroidered pants, and his uniform was silvery glitter of bloody buttons and finery. He had no hat, and his head was bleeding. He looked like a god of war, his face carved from stone, his smile an ironic, beautiful grin, his eyes mocking and flirting, blue as the sky. ‘You a local?’ He asked in Italian, I understood that much. I shook my head, unable to speak. ‘French?’ He asked, jumping down, agile like an animal, crouching next to me, rifling the man’s jacket, and looking for the finery.

I
sobered at that and growled a warning. ‘A cantiniére and this is mine.’ I slapped at his fingers.

His eyes opened out wide in surprise and he smiled hugely. ‘Why, dear one, is he yours?’

‘I killed the fucker,’ I told him, hoping he would not insist, for I knew I wanted to please him. I cursed myself for such weakness, tore my eyes from his grinning face, and pulled out a pouch full of coins. His eyes flashed greed, but he did not stop me. I saw Henri looking on, and Laroche coming closer.

‘It is good,’ he said, ‘that I rode to fetch the boys to help you. That fat colonel of yours would have let you die.’

‘It was you? Trying to rouse that bastard?’ I asked, my eyes round with admiration.

‘Yes! But worry not, I have managed some loot, I need no reward,’ he said happily. He jingled a bloody sabretache hanging from his sabre sheath. I was pulling at a
simple silver ring in the Pole’s hand, which refused to move. He clucked his tongue, took the hand, and pulled a knife. ‘One advice, if the rings are too tight in their fingers, just cut the finger, it will be easy to remove it later when the juices have drained.’ I looked on in horror as he deftly did so, and offered the index to me.

I shrugged and gingerly rejected it. ‘Keep it,’ I told him. ‘Rations?’ I said, and he laughed merrily. I spat, and wondered how such an exquisite creature as he was could cut men’s fingers.

I glanced at the bloody sabretache and he laughed. ‘No, that’s just my own blood. But sometimes, it does come from such fingers.’ He touched his head wound and winced gently. Then I saw Henri looking on, and I decided I wanted to hurt him.

‘Come, let me see it,’ I said, not knowing if I knew what I was doing. I wiped my fingers and removed some hair from the wound, and his eyes probed me and he put his
strong hands on my hips as he crouched there, for balance, I supposed, but of course, he just wanted to do that. His grip was firm, and I struggled to keep my face angry as I cleaned the wound with a rag.

‘Your captain does not like this,’ he said, his lynx-like eyes twinkling as he regarded Henri. ‘But perhaps, that is how you like it?’ He was keen, but I said nothing, not even when his hand moved higher to rest on my sides, and I knew I should stop him, but I enjoyed torturing the noble bastard looking on. After all, he had no feelings for me, did he? I glanced at Henri and his face was stony, as he regarded me.

‘He is just worried,’ I said, as I noted the wound was hardly superficial. I ripped some cloth off my ragged shirt and bound the wound clumsily, then gazed at him, as he had not let go.