Reign of Fear: Story of French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars (Cantiniére Tales) (31 page)

Nodding nervously, I walked towards the tent. Its sides were blowing in the wind as soldiers were dismantling it. Near the tent, a man in shirtsleeves was grooming a horse. Sun’s first rays were lighting the beautiful forests around us with golden light, birds were singing everywhere
around us in the hills and light woods, and it was obviously going to be a beautiful day. I ducked into the tent, and saw an older man shaving the captain. Henri did not react as I entered, but the old man, gaunt from concentration, glanced at me, and smiled briefly. He was shaving the captain with the utmost care. The razor and towel made lightning quick movements, but captain’s stubble seemed impregnable to the man’s efforts.

‘For Gods sakes, man! I have breakfast to eat. It is there, getting cold! Can you please get this done!’ he cursed, and read a letter, squinting as the sun shone through the thin paper.

A lieutenant, young, thin men with a square face, stood to the side, listening to captain complain. He agreed on everything Henri said, though stoically. Finally, the captain grabbed a cigar, pushed the barber away, and gave the lieutenant instructions.

‘Shoes. We have no shoes. Send some of the better thieves to the
outlying villages as we march, and have them strip the shoes from civilians walking about. I know the peasants hide the shoes as well as the animals, but if you catch an animal of theirs, or shoes, tell them you will trade one for the other, and then take both. Just find them. And do not tell anyone of the Netherlands.’ I cleared my throat. He squinted at me. ‘You. What’s your name again?’ He seemed to have forgotten much of the last night and there was an odd gleam of concentration in his eyes, as he was preparing to take the men to war.

‘Jeanette, sir.
What has happened in Netherlands?’ I said as I slid forward.

He grunted.
‘Battle of Tournay, girl. Not something to share with the children.’

‘What are my duties, sir?’ I asked him sarcastically. He glanced at lieutenant who had been staring at me. The younger man’s face turned stone as the captain got up and buckled a straight sword to his hip, glowering at him.

‘How many men, Boulton?’

The lieutenant flipped his eyes to a paper in his hand. ‘The battalion has, basically, only three companies worth of men. The surge
on–major is diverted to another lucky brigade. Some are missing lieutenants and we have no musicians, save one sergeant who can play a rather ribald ballad with his lute, they say.’

‘I do not need musicians or ballads, Boulton, you dimwit. We will go to opera one day, drunk as sailors, but now, Boulton, we need other things. Soldiers. Guns.’

The officer shrugged. ‘Most have a Charleville, sir. Ammunition to last ten minutes, bayonets, some stray, unofficial swords, few axes. They carry their cooking gear, few fulfill the regulations and standards.’

‘Jackets, waistcoats, cravats?’ the captain asked.

‘Motley, sir. They look like wolves, sir. All different. Ugly.’

‘Good. We are dirty enough to worry the pansy Austrian boys. How many men do I have in the fifth? Just give me the numbers.’

‘With Lefebvre back, we have three sergeants, one more than we should have in the company, three corporals, one drummer, and some fifty regulars.’ He eyed me. ‘And two, perhaps three cantiniére,’ he said carefully.

The captain snickered. ‘We will see. Jeanette? You will march near me, but first, polish my boots
or help the men pull the tent down, without landing it on me and the breakfast.’

I took his boots and let the men work on the tent, and the captain ogled me, as I clumsily used my skirt on the cracked leather. I tried hard to
make them clean and shiny, spitting discreetly on the surface and then using all my strength while scrubbing vigorously, but instead of a nice polish, the skin cracked in new places. I glanced at him. ‘What is happening, sir? With this war?’

He was eyeing his boots in horror, but shrugged himself out of the mood. ‘General Dumbertion, our illustrious leader is taking commands from the young Buonaparte, and I have to say he did fine in April. I doubt you know the country, no?’ He took one boot from me, cursing silently.

‘I do not,’ I said as I took the other one for the treatment.

‘Sardinian kingdom, meaning Piedmont at this point is in a league with the Austrians, and the Austrian leader is de Viens, a gout ridden idiot who kept his Piedmont general Colli, also an Austrian, from
wisely retreating, when we took Ormea. Then we swung back to attack him in Saorge. Now, they are all split. Piedmont under Colli and de Viens pray for peace, but they need not fear as we are just dithering. Austrians ran away to the east, and we hold much of the middle around here, Savona and many important passes, but with no energy. Carnot does not want us to move forward. Carnot is the…’

‘Minister of war, yes,’ I said, pretending to know about him, and made a hole in his other boot by vigorously scrubbing the old leather few times too many. ‘Your boots are…’

‘All I have, girl!’ he said and grabbed the mauled thing. ‘Sit and eat. I was going to say that Carnot is the greatest war minister we have had, but he is no general.’

I saw he had a
meager fare of old bread, eggs and sliced cabbage. I sat gingerly, and started to nibble on a piece of bread. ‘Wine?’ He offered, and cursed the soldiers who leered at him, while securing his gear on a packhorse.

I ignored the soldiers, nodded, sipped the
sour wine he had poured on a tin mug and he continued. ‘Now, we go and scout. Up towards the north. Carnot wishes to make sure we hold the Midi, the coast girl. But Buonaparte, I think, wants to beat the whole lot of the enemy, not just secure Genoa. Buonaparte is in Genoa, and that bastard Saliceti and the other Robespierre, Augustin try to swing Carnot. But we, the hill-humping light infantry, go to work and will see what is what. There have been reports of Austrians marching some way from here, in the pass of Cadibona, just near us here in Savona. We cannot let them cut Genoa off France. We need the city and the coast. And so the battalion goes to have a look see.’ I nodded and looked down. He thrummed his fingers. ‘Yes, you are in danger. Last night Chambon sent a word to Saliceti, and while you might be inconsequential to the great ones and their game of thrones, they might take notice of an upstart captain refusing their holy requests. But we march today, and devil does not march faster than we do. You are but a speck of dust for Saliceti and Augustin Robespierre. This relative of yours, he cares, no doubt, and might swing them around to care as well, but it will take time, perhaps. Quite a mess. Seems my head is destined for Paris and the blade. Well, we will see, I sent a letter too.’ He eyed me, thinking.

‘I thank you, captain. Who did you send a…’

‘Henri.’ He handed over two papers, richly signed and stamped. Mother and I were both cantiniére.

I gulped
from the emotion of his bravery and sacrifice and forgot my question, pleased at calling him by his first name, yet afraid at what it might imply. Afraid, hopeful. I was confused. ‘A cantiniére is part of the military organization, no? Are we not supposed to call you by…’

He threw down his wine, anger playing on his face. ‘Yes. You are. I was hoping you might be more friendly, though,’ he said and got up, his face suddenly disturbed. ‘I did not mean it like that!
Not as a flirt or anything untoward. I meant I wanted some people around me who do not have a stiff piece of shit plugging their rear ends.’ He looked carefully at my expression after that bit of military language, but I had been in jail, and heard worse.

I giggled foolishly and smiled at him. ‘It would indeed be unseemly to flirt with a young woman, captain, when marching to war. You should be thinking about the enemy.’

He snorted. ‘I like my girls older and fatter.’

I felt a terrible pang of disappointment
at that, even if I knew it was probably for the best. He stood there without a clue he had insulted me, and I thought of something nasty to say. Our enemy saved me, as colonel Chambon appeared, and issued orders from his beautiful horse, so in contradiction with its master. Henri went to fetch them, and the colonel did not say anything to him as he rode away. Henri chortled after the colonel, opened the orders and apparently, a demon took him over as he energized himself.

Soon, Boulton was running
like a hare, men were yelling in panic as the growling captain harried them around the yard and slowly, the 4
th
Chasseur Battalion of the 4
th
Light Infantry Demi-Brigade and it’s ragged men shouldered their used, well greased muskets in the curious skirmisher way, holding them on their left shoulder and balancing them with their right hand across the chest. They carried their gear and started for the Pass of Cadibona. The fifth company, ours, was the first to go, by the orders of Chambon, who was looking at Henri with utter coldness as we passed. With him, stood another captain, a short, stocky man with a curiously rat-like face. A dangerous man by his eyes, which were staring unkindly at Henri as well. That was likely Manuel Voclain, who spoke a question at Chambon, who pointed a finger at us. God, but Gilbert´s reach was long. I shivered in fear as the men’s eyes followed us.

I admired the
fine troops, though, their stoic devotion to soldiering chasing away my darker thoughts.

A light brigade, love, is a thing of beauty. I am not saying the men with us were pretty, though some were pretty enough, but most were thieving bastards, half in civilian clothes. It lacked decoration, Marie, the battalion, but it made up with it by complete professionalism and confidence. You could see it in the faces of the men. All were proud to be there, marching forward. I saw several
slip away to loot the unsuspecting locals. Gendarmes, the military police who should stop looting with brutal efficiency were looters themselves, and French army was a thing to make any land weep, for we had no supplies; we took it all from the people. Now in Germany, the families would take us in gracefully, even making friends with the men whom they were forced to feed. In Italy, not so much. Here, they called us pigs and some shot at us. I won’t even mention Spain. People there grunt when asked a question, at best nod, for they hate the French and live like they did in the Medieval times, their conservative mindset so utterly different from our lighter outlook on life. The Spanish ladies were different, but that is a story for another time. In Italy, we knew the locals saw us coming and hid their women, plentiful food, and finer clothes. However, it was hard to fool a canny light infantryman. The men needed few commands; they knew already what to do. We had, Syphilis told me, a hussar squadron out there scouting on their light horses, but Henri had men screening our advance through the hilly, wooded lands north of Savona. In two hours time, Sergeant Breadcrumbs sent corporals with some men to visit visible and known farmhouses, some quite prosperous ones with famous wineries, where the occupants would part with precious pigs, fat cows and fine chicken, and in some cases with their self esteem, as they often tried to lie to the men who had not time for niceties. Soon, the company was marching with domestic animals in tow.

I saw mother driving her wagon after the company. Vivien did the same, though her wagon held
fine loot, decent amounts of food, some basic drinks, cheap tobacco she would sell to the men.

Henri was riding in front of the company, sweating in his coat, looking bored at the Alps stretching out to the west.
Soon, he turned his horse and rode lazily for Boulton. ‘I hate the cold, and I hate the freezing mountains,’ he grumbled. The lieutenant smiled dutifully.

I decided he wanted an
answer, as Boulton was being a mule. ‘I love them; they are prettier than I thought. Somehow eerie and ancient. But the sea? I love it better.’ I glanced behind me. There, the blue and azure waters stretched towards Africa. British frigates were patrolling the waters, but the sight calmed me.

He laughed. ‘Ever been to the sea, girl?’

‘I am from Paris, sir,’ I said woodenly and he spat.

‘Used to gutters then, eh? No good sailing in those. Trust me, all the blue
 and green beauty you see out there is freezing cold, the unfriendly waves make you puke your guts out and those waves love the Brits better than the French, the fucking goddamns.’

‘Goddamns?’

Lieutenant Boulton in his shabby coat smiled at me. ‘The British. They usually shout like that, cursing the god when they die.’

‘Lieutenant,’ Henri said
languidly. ‘Send sergeant Syphilis with swift men to fetch some decent victuals and get me a proper lunch. Try to find a prominent house the damned hussars have not visited. Chicken, if you please. Jeanette? Saunter off with them, and make sure they don’t steal my share, and make sure there is a portion to begin with.’

The lieutenant turned and scampered off to find the sergeant, and I wondered what my army name would be, should they be of mind to make one up. I would make sure it was not Syphilis or anything similar. ‘Run along now, they don’t wait for errant girls,’ Henri said.

‘Yes, sir,’ I told him, angry at the abrupt dismissal but he did not notice as he carefully scanned the wooded hills, thick with vegetation and forests, testily sending some more men to find a secure path forward.

Sergeant Syphilis gazed at me, astonished, as I found them, and the two men with him just stared, as if I
was a ghost. Syphilis snorted. ‘Captain does not trust us to bring him his due? What good are you out there, I wonder?’