Reign of Fear: Story of French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars (Cantiniére Tales) (44 page)

So, Cleft had been a fool, nothing more.

‘You did shoot the colonel!’ Cleft said as he backed up. ‘I know this is true.’

‘Thierry shot him, yes,’ Fox said. ‘And I shot at Laroche and
 tried to kill Marcel, but the demons guarded them. Now, I will shoot you, in the balls, unless you tell us what is what. What did you tell them?’

They stepped in. Thierry had an axe,
Fox a musket. Next to me, in the dark, Laroche and Marcel raised their weapons, I raised my pistol. Outside, Breadcrumbs and Syphilis would be getting ready. Fox sensed something, his eyes glancing around, for he was truly a sibilant creature of the night, but it was too late for him. ‘Kill the fuckers,’ I said and our weapons flared.

Fox flew
on his back to lie on the dirty hay, dead as a stone, slain immediately. Thierry screamed as a heavy musket ball shattered his arm, and he bled from a wound in his abdomen as he went to his knees, and then fell on to his side.

Marcel grunted. ‘I can do this, Jeanette. You do not need to suffer for it. I…’

I shook my head and walked to Thierry, and pulled Henri’s sword our, something Boulton had contributed to this night. It was heavy, and Robert’s lessons with a mockery of the real thing came to my mind. Here lay men who had tried to kill me. Voclain was not here, true, but I felt a changed woman as I gazed at the dead and the dying. I feared, still, for it was natural to fear ungodly deeds, but I was grown up, able to do what must be done, no matter if the deeds were evil. In that way, I was like mother had been. Like her, I’d give away the last shreds of my innocence for a higher cause and I understood her choices better now. Hers had been a different kind of battle, becoming a whore for us, and I would become a killer. I had shot Adam, yes, but Thierry was helpless. I thought of mother, her bravery was my bravery, as I put the blade inside Thierry’s bushy beard, and pushed it down. His eyes popped up in his head as he clawed and wounded his one good hand on the wickedly sharp blade and I pushed until the blade scraped bone, cut arteries and he died there, pumping his blood on my feet. I felt terror, bile in my throat, and unfathomable horror, but it was done. I had forsaken God and would endure guilt, but I would not be a victim any longer.

I took the blade out. Marcel was eyeing me carefully. ‘What are you going to do next, girl?’

‘Take a bath and a long trip,’ I said coldly and left.

That morning, I descended on a
swift stream, gasping as the cold water tried to kill me with its icy fingers. I decided not to care, and so I scrubbed and cleaned and washed my hair clean of grime and blood, shivering uncontrollably. I felt relieved and happy, for some reason, and did not even mind the insistent musketry that was going on somewhere near. I noticed a fat man sitting on a mossy stone near my crumpled clothes, and managed to curb the scream and the instinct to grab a loaded gun I had left at hand’s reach.

Laroche was smiling at me lecherously. ‘You have some dirt under the left breast.
On the nipple too. Wash your ears.’ His eyes hardened as he saw a small bite mark by Voclain on my breast, but he said nothing of it. I would have my payment later for that.

I resisted the impulse to tell him to go away. Instead, I did wash the spots he indicated and decided I wanted to call his bluff, and I got up, shook the worst of the droplets away, and saw him gulping at the glorious sight it must have been. His face twitched and he was no longer smiling. ‘You indicated you like men, did you?’ I asked him. ‘You liar.’

He sighed. ‘No. I am married. Twice, in fact. I don’t know why I lie so much, but there it is. I do. Also, on this particular lie, perhaps I’ve seen pretty girls don’t mind being relaxed with men who are not a threat. Sometimes very relaxed. But I suppose I could be one, a threat after all and have you as my third wife if you were not as dear as a sister to me.’

I laughed as he grinned uncertainly.
I poked him. ‘One day, you will hang and all your wives and friends alike will celebrate. You are a snake, my friend. But like a brother I love as well. Cleft? How is he?’ I asked him, as I sat down next to him, leaning back brazenly.

‘Jesus, Jeanette,’ he said
with a tremble in his voice. ‘You are giving me a very uncomfortable feeling, and if you did this to Cleft, I can hardly blame him from going crazy, if he indeed did. Perhaps the poor sod was really only a fool for the bastards.’

I arched my neck and stared at him, enjoying his discomfort. ‘Perhaps he was.’

He was gathering himself slowly and managed to speak with a normal tone as he gazed at me. ‘Cleft? He is isolated. He eats, drinks, and the boys know Vivien fooled him, perhaps and he carries those scars. You know if he is truly as intelligent as he is, perhaps he knew he was being duped, and tried to have his revenge on you, by accepting their simple traps. If they succeeded, he might have been happy enough, even without either of you women. He is a proud man, and you did hurt him, and I think, it was him who turned his own father in as well, you know, for praying for the king even after taking the state priesthood. Who knows? He has devils dancing inside him, and he hates to be crossed.’

‘We all have them,’ I told him and started to pull on my clothing, as I thought about Cleft and his father, and how Laroche could very well be right. It did not matter.

‘What of Vivien?’ he asked me, careful to keep his eyes on mine.

I shrugged and took a deep breath. ‘She helped deliver Jacques. She did not have to do that. God knows what she thinks and have endured.’

‘You are soft,’ he scoffed.

‘Sometimes,’ I answered, getting cold.

‘Where are you traveling?’ he asked with a bored voice, one that showed he knew the answer.

‘I have to go to Paris.’

He was nodding to himself. ‘Not to Lyons to find your siblings? After all, Voclain is now being closely watched and his men are rotting cadavers. None goes near him. But you go to Paris to finish this?’

‘To finish this, yes. That way, I can maybe keep my siblings after I find them.’

He slapped a bag in front of him. I was pulling on a shirt, but he stopped me with a grunt. ‘Here, a fanciful dress and silken coat. Good quality, I dare say. A hat, a tad crumbled and God knows if it is in the latest style. I stole these from some dreadful hussy at the headquarters, who was leaving her baggage where it can get lost quickly. And here, two papers, indicating we will go on a leave of absence from the company. Boulton signed them, he is too busy to read what he signs, you see.’

‘So, you are coming with me?’
I asked him, while admiring the clothing. I shrieked as a girl would as I turned the dress around, my mouth open. ‘It’s so beautiful. So very, very beautiful. I’ve never had it’s like. Not sure how to put it on.’

He looked at me in disgust.
‘My God. What happened to you? It’s just a dress. Here, let me help. I’ve undressed them often enough.’

He helped me dress and I giggled as I admired myself, feeling uncomfortable and yet, strangely feminine. Laroche pulled me down and sat me on a boulder as he produced a comb and silken strings and started to make my hair. ‘How,’ I asked him impishly as his deft, fat fingers braided
my hair into a beautiful bun, ‘do you know how to do this?’

He snorted in embarrassment. ‘I had six sisters. And one word to the boys and I will
spank you. As for coming with you? Yes. I’m a friend, you are a fellow soldier, despite the present attire, but thanks to that, better looking one than most of the company, and now, better smelling one than any of them. You are daft enough to get killed if I do not come and hold your fucking hand.’

I slapped a letter on his
lap; the one Didier had taken from Voclain. ‘But I will go to this house alone. Just the fine sword, and me,’ I told him. ‘Thank you for the fabulous clothes.’ I leaned over and kissed his fat lips gratefully and he cursed me for a tart.

I was a tart in mood for blood, Marie. I thought I would conquer for I was no longer afraid, but there would be disappointments, as this is how life functions. No matter what you plan, things go askew and even a woman who has found her courage can still break her heart.

I left mother a note, apologizing to her humbly, telling her I loved her and begged her not to worry and to care for the men, especially Henri. Of course, she suffered terribly, likely nearly mad with grief over her insane daughter, but I could not think about that, for I had a job to do.

‘It hurts you like hot coals, burning and scorching your very soul. It will hurt you until you die. However, it also grew you up into a man a woman can love. Truly, utterly, love. And I do love you, you fucking idiot. I am glad you did not die with her.’ (Jeanette to Henri.)

CHAPTER 19

Likely, we were the only soldiers travelling for Paris, instead to the other direction where the
terrible war was being stubbornly waged. It would take two weeks of travel, and we crossed long lines of marching men, marching to start the long campaign of Italy, a thing of unforgettable horror, streams of blood, famous victories, horrible losses, near unending suffering for the common men and golden glory for Napoleon Bonaparte, who would take the war to the strong enemy, his tools a ragged, tired and dispirited army. We would be part of that, but first, I had to finish with Gilbert.

Approaching the city I had grown up in, passing towns and villages, I saw France had changed much. Nobles were still
deeply despised and reviled by much of the population, but there were now many royalists clamoring for the restoration of the old kingdom, and these sometimes made a fine case for themselves, or died unlucky deaths. We passed many of a town square where both Jacobins and Royalists were being condemned; swiftly executed or taken away to rot in some horrible, damp dungeon, and villages where royalists hung those for the Republic. Some of the silent, hanged people were but children. It was hard to see what France would be like, when everything was over, and only one side left, and what that surviving side would stand for.

We arrived in Paris early September. We secured a housing near the City Hall, in a charming building that served as a seedy tavern, and Laroche, the thief, kept us stocked with
decent amount of food that was still as scarce it had been earlier. I read the now torn letter I had taken from Didier. It was a simple one, in it; sprawling letters gave orders to bring me to the house addressed in the front of the letter. Rue Chantereine, number sixteen. I was to be alive. Well, I was and I knew I would have to be lucky to survive, for I had realized something about the letter. Yet, the house I was to be brought to was our only clue and I was determined to wait until it was used.

The evening we arrived, we walked to the street, where we eyed the forlorn lane, the wet and wat
ery alleys and listened to the multitude of large frogs croaking. It was a sad street, smelly as gutter and dirty as a pigsty and the people were ill kempt. We idled under trees, eyeing the massive wooden doors of number sixteen. The house was sturdy, made of granite, the windows high, but there was nothing happening behind the windows, no lights, even. Laroche complained and waited around with me, flirting gamely with the local whores but we were not rewarded by our patience, for that night, nothing moved in the house. So, we slept, and came back the next day, where we bought strange testing coffee, some rancid, roasted meat and Laroche found an abandoned room on the third floor of the house across the way from number sixteen, where we moved.

This is how we spent a
long week, and my patience was wearing so thin I even yelled at Laroche, who told me I was just like his wife. Which one, I did not ask. Finally, after day of mutual sulking, I hugged him, which he received carefully, proving he was married and knew a woman’s apology is not to be exploited. ‘It is not your fault,’ I told him, miserable. ‘What if he does not live there? Never did?’

‘Then we failed,’ he crumbled, and gave me some wine. We had only so much money, and I worried for even Laroche could only steal so much without getting caught.

While we waited, great things were happening.

‘Can you believe it?’ Laroche told me one morning as I stared out of the broken window at the stubbornly empty house.

‘What?’ I asked, absentmindedly.

‘That Buonaparte has been planning and taking charge of the war in Italy, says t
he paper, but yesterday, on 29
th
Fructidor, Year III of the Republic, or, September 15th, as we know it,’ he laughed, ‘the man was sacked by the Committee of Public Safety. They are crazy here.

‘I am going
crazy here, Laroche,’ I told him sullenly.

‘I am mad I got us here. That house is dead,’ he said and dodged as I threw a cup at him.

But he was right, for France was seething. Parts of France had been rebelling against the Republic since the beginning of its birth, and in Vendée and Chouannerie, armies had been raised for the royalists, aided by British and émigrés. Tens of thousands had died, and the inability of the Convention to stamp out the internal enemies and the continuing wars and famine, were ripe grounds for opportunists to change things for their own benefit.

Laroche clambered into the room one afternoon
in the early October and roused me with strong shakes. He had been guarding the house outside in the street, where there was also the constant stream of women with questionable reputations. I refused to wake up, groaning and he pulled me up to a sitting position. I felt like a marionette and I grabbed the sword, bewildered.

His eyes were round. ‘They have made a new constitution. The real power, the executive power, is at the hands on Directory of Seven.’

‘What? What the hell do I care about that? Why do you?’

He was waving his hands. ‘There is a rebellion on the make. Some twenty thousand Parisians are marching to Tuiliers, and they are mostly royalists. Perhaps we get our
fine church, old calendar and moldy king back!’

I got up, groggy, holding my head. ‘Why do you care about
the king? Besides, he is dead. Likely moldy indeed.’

‘There are others of the blood, waiting. Paul Barras is raising former Jacobin militia. Why did you not tell me Paris is this much fun? It’s all fucking crazy here. Let’s go and see what passes
in Tuiliers, come! We have been ogling at the empty house for weeks, so let’s do something different.’

‘Fine,’ I told
him, sulking, as he threw me a loaf of dry bread, a canteen full of sour milk and took a leak on a broken vase we used for the purpose. I grimaced as he did that and cursed him, for he always hit the rim but not the hole, and I had to wipe it clear. I realized he was much like a brother I never had and loved him dearly.

We hiked for the Tuiliers, and the streets were cluttered, people were yelling
madly and running with apparent purpose. Scruffy National Guardsmen were rushing forward, some with flags, for they were fed up, and Laroche laughed, loving the chaos. ‘The comte d’Artois is marching on Paris with some sort of an army. They are really riled up.’ He giggled, but I just smiled. It had been some long six years I had been running around the city with a band of madmen, and things were quite the same, no matter for whom they killed today. We had to stop abruptly, dodging aside as some men were felling Liberty Trees. Others were burning once glorious cockades, and then, they all went to Tuiliers.

When we got there, we faced a massive
, irascible crowd. Laroche was talking with a man, who was gesturing wildly. I kept walking and let him catch up to me. He was out of breath. ‘La Peletier section of the city had repulsed General Menou!’

‘Yes, yes,’ I told him, bored, thinking back on the taking of Bastille.

‘Let us all rise, let us have a king!’ shouted a drunken baker and they all screamed, caught up in the mood. It was all so bewildering, and I could not understand their motives, for my worries were simpler, but all of the clamor around us did have entertainment value and I thought Laroche had been right. We needed a change. We wondered at the people, at the terrible clamor and that night, sitting in a tavern near Tuiliers, surrounded by haphazard, indecisive mobs, we ate and cheered people who were mustering forces to charge the Convention the next day. Laroche nudged at me. ‘Should we go to bed?’

I shook m
y head. ‘Sorry, my friend Laroche, I don’t want a disease.’

He grinned. ‘I meant should we sleep some?
But I assure I have no diseases and can call witnesses to the fact. And you have seen me as I piss, it is one healthy piece of beauty, it is. Perhaps enough for you to forget the colonel?’ he joked, while raising a lecherous eyebrow.

‘
No, its not enough for that. I’ll have a talk with your wives, Laroche, yes, I can write them and ask them to visit, and should I get pregnant for the colonel, I’ll claim you are the father.’ His mouth hung open, but I placed a hand on his. ‘To be honest, I rather enjoy this tumult. Let’s stay.’ I was chewing on a meat pie and nodded at a crippled soldier. ‘That man said Paul Barras commands the forces they call patriots, trying to stem this counter revolution.’

‘Barras? Colonel’s friend?’ Laroche asked while
also munching on some surprisingly good, thick beef soup, apparently still horrified by my threat. The meat likely came from a dog or a rat, but we didn’t care. We were soldiers from a starving army.

‘You have been listening,’ I told him. So, we stayed up that night,
merry and drunk and it reminded me of the fine night before Bastille or the one in Versailles, before the king moved to Paris. Next morning, we went towards Tuiliers, to see vast masses of men and women surrounding the palace and we both had a terrible headache.

‘Like five to one, I think,’ Laroche said, scanning
the sights from a lamppost that was groaning under his weight. ‘The buggers in Tuiliers won’t stand a chance. Long live the king!’ he yelled and I climbed up with him. From there, we held on precariously to the twisted lamp and saw how the crowd was facing a ridiculously small number of desperate defenders entrenched in Tuiliers, the officers riding calmly behind the men. But there were cannon with the defenders and there was something about a general commanding them that made me uneasy. The man was but a spec, but even from far, he was professional and cool as ice, in control as a priest in charge of a sermon, and then, the crowds surged forward. Guns banged, grapeshot moved down rebellious citizens and drunken soldiers and so it was that we saw how Napoleon, on behalf of Paul Barras first repelled a small attack, and then, later, had his artillery and guards shoot down a veritable tide of royalists. Blood flowed and Paris, for the first time since the rebellion, saw an unsuccessful attack on Tuiliers, as Napoleon gave the Parisian’s a “whiff of grapeshot.”

‘It’s a worse bloodbath than we had in Dego!’ Laroche said, wondering. ‘Imagine that, at the capital.’

‘This was my home, can you believe it?’ I wondered, as I saw the cannons belch, and Napoleon mount a new horse, as the last one had been shot from under him.

‘Your father was
from here?’ he asked, as we witnessed many chasseurs a cheval in their rather plain jackets charge their horses amidst fleeing royalists, sabers working hard. A pair of cannon belched terrible loads of canister and grape shot that gutted a last group of royalists trying to edge closer to the Tuiliers. ‘They won’t last. The idiots attacking those positions.’

I nodded, not really caring. ‘Long live the Republic then! Yes, my father was from here. All the people I knew were from here. I thought of dead Florian, and then everything changed.

For below us, an old man was running, a chinless man with a paunch, in a green jacket and I swore it was Florian’s father, Claude Antin. The man he told me had died.