By the Whim of Fate
Book the First
in the Ney Chronicles
An Historical Novel
Chapter 2
Copyright © Ben Longstreet, 2001
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Ney rose from behind the desk outside the door to the Quartermaster’s Office and strode to the
iced-over window which brought the only natural light into the dingy room. Now though it had to be supplemented by two gigantic candles and the blaze of a fire - the one thing that made occupation of the outer office bearable. The large white-washed room served both as storeroom and waiting room, as well as being stacked with all the files which enabled the
regiment to function with a modicum of efficiency. He watched the fog of his breath roll into the winter air like smoke from a cannon, misting against the inside of the glass. He rubbed at the pane with his fist, clearing a view to the outside.
It was New Year’s Day of 1799 and Ney had just been promoted to brigadier - or corporal as some insisted on calling him. He looked proudly at the two aurore chevrons which were freshly sewn onto each lower sleeve of his stable jacket. Three years to make brigadier. It was much longer than he had anticipated, but that was the nature of the peacetime army.
He rubbed again at the small pane of glass, clearing away the frost, and stared out onto the parade ground. It was practically deserted. All the horses were carefully stabled, and Ney was grateful that he had obtained the coveted post of Quartermaster’s Assistant.
Stable duty in this weather was no picnic, even for a young man who appeared unaffected by any extremity that the weather could throw at him. A movement in the north east corner of the square caught his eye. It was Jacqueminot, the regimental fencing master. He watched the maréchal de logis chef carefully swinging his sabre, first one way about his head, then another, fencing an invisible enemy who was graciously allowing the ponderous moves their full time to complete. Ney shook his head sadly, before speaking aloud: “I fear de Carignac will not be so companionable, sergeant-major.”
“And I fear that the colonel will get wind of it and stop the whole thing before honour can be settled.”
Ney swung round, not realising that anybody else had been in the room. He had of course recognised the voice; it belonged to Captain d’Aubreme, the Quartermaster. “I’m sorry sir. I didn’t know you were there.”
D’Aubreme brushed aside the apology. He liked young Ney. The lad was a first class hussar as well as being the best assistant d’Aubreme had had. Most of the fellows he had been lumbered with had been hardly able to string a few sentences of coherent writing together, whereas Ney, with his formal education, was quite a revelation.
Having recovered from the momentary surprise given him by d’Aubreme’s inconspicuous entry from his own office, Ney realised that the officer was aware of the impending duel. He had thought that the matter had been kept quiet, between the NCOs of the two units. Apparently not. He struggled with a sudden doubt. Might he discuss the matter with an officer?
Even this officer, whom Ney had great respect for. Duelling was frowned upon, and was often severely punished, even in these days of revolutionary zeal. Yet d’Aubreme had clearly alluded to the impending fight, and he was most certainly not just casting stones to watch the ripples.
“I will not be telling the Colonel, if that is what you are thinking,” said d’Aubreme gently, sensing the turmoil in the newly promoted hussar.
“Might I ask why not sir” countered Ney, speaking far more boldly to an officer than was generally acceptable. However five months as Quartermaster’s Assistant had created a warm relationship between the two, working together in solitude as they often did.
“Honour, Ney. Honour,” d’Aubreme advised, sagely.
Ney paused to think. Yes, honour. That magical thing that cannot be seen yet is always there. The one thing which you cannot hide from yourself. Without it one is nothing. “I understand, sir,” Ney said aloud, yet knowing that to each man honour was a different entity. A personal idea which could be all or nothing, depending on the man.
“He cannot beat de Carignac. We both know that,” said d’Aubreme, his words a sad statement of fact.
“No sir,” replied Ney flatly.
Jacqueminot was known to be over the hill. He was a twenty year veteran who had been in more scrapes than most of the rest of the regiment thrown in. Yet such a life had its price, and the grizzled sergeant-major was heavily scarred. And he was slow. Oh, he had not always been that way. For years he had been a fighting cock, and had killed or wounded a
score of opponents. But that had been in the days when duels had been fought in the first light of dawn, on grassy knolls or by running brooks. Now it was different. Duelling was forbidden. Officially.
Unofficially it was still rife, but now it was a secretive affair, carried out under the cover of night, and where the heavens had no view of the event. “If it were you I might have ten francs on the contest,” observed the captain, candidly.
“I don’t know that I could best de Carignac,” stuttered Ney, modestly.
“Ha! You demean yourself with such humility,” snorted d’Aubreme. “We both know that you are the best sabre in the regiment. How many times have you turned the sergeant-major now?”
“Four,” confirmed Ney. “Yet that was only practice, sir. This will be different.”
“True,” agreed d’Aubreme. “Have you ever killed a man, brigadier?”
“No sir.”
“It is not so difficult, you know. Either one has it or one does not. And if one does…” d’Aubreme left the words hanging, his open gesture completing the speech.
“I should like to try my hand, if only once,” said Ney, focusing on the man in the yard.
“Take my advice, young man,” advised the twenty-nine year old captain to the corporal who would be twenty-two in nine days time. “Continue as you are going now and you will make your way, my lad. Do not wish too much, and let your life happen. There may be time for plenty.”
With that he turned on his heel and withdrew to the sanctum of the Quartermaster’s Office. Ney returned his stare to the window. It had once more misted over and he rubbed at it irritably with his sleeve, clearing a larger area. He could see Jacqueminot’s battered face, red with exertion, and he had a precognition of disaster. It was true, he had bested the man four times, and had not lost to him in practice in over a year. It was also true that he was the finest swordsman in his squadron, and probably in the regiment, yet until he had drawn blood in anger it would only be so much practice. The sight of the old sergeant-major made Ney think of his own father. They were similar in many ways. Both tough as old boots, unwilling to concede defeat to anything. Both old.
He walked back to his desk, and opened the small draw which was allowed to him for private possessions. He fished out a folded piece of paper and opened it. The paper was a letter from his father, written on Christmas Day, and delivered a week later. He had already read it half a dozen times since yesterday.
IT IS YET ANOTHER CHRISTMAS WHICH WE CELEBRATE WITHOUT YOU. ARE YOU SO BUSY THAT YOU CANNOT SPARE TIME FOR YOUR MOTHER AND I? JEAN IS HERE, AS IS MARGUERITE. SHE HAS BROUGHT SUIVEÉ, THE FELLOW FROM THE COLLIERY WHO I TOLD YOU ABOUT BEFORE. IT LOOKS AS IF THEY ARE BEGINNING TO COURT. YOUR MOTHER APPROVES OF HIM. JEAN IS FULL OF THIS NEW ‘NATIONAL VOLUNTEERS’ BUSINESS, AND HIS TALK OF FINALLY JOINING UP HAS UPSET YOUR MOTHER. HE SAYS THAT HE IS THE OLDEST SON AND THAT IT WAS HIS IDEA FIRST TO JOIN THE ARMY, AND THAT YOU HAD NO RIGHT TO USURP HIS POSITION. TAKE NO NOTICE THOUGH, FOR HE IS AS EVER FULL OF SOUR GRAPES. WERE HE EVER TO GET OFF HIS BACKSIDE AND ACT INSTEAD OF TALK HE MIGHT FINALLY ACHIEVE SOMETHING. HAVE YOU HEARD ANY MORE ABOUT THIS BUSINESS IN PARIS. RUMOURS HERE ARE THAT THE KING HAS BEEN DEPOSED AND THAT WE ARE AT CIVIL WAR. CAN THIS BE TRUE? IT CANNOT BE RIGHT. THE OLD ORDER HAS WORKED WELL ENOUGH FOR CENTURIES. WHO ARE THESE JACOBINS TO COME ALONG AND BUGGER UP EVERYTHING? I GRANT YOU THAT SOME OF THE EXCESSES OF THE NOBILITY OF LATE ARE A TRIFLE MUCH, BUT WHAT OTHER
PATH IS THERE?’ Ney paused, thinking again about his father’ string of questions. He himself had absolutely no interest in politics. None. By and large he despised those who made their way on the backs of others, regardless of their class, yet he could not bring himself to get involved. He was a soldier. No more. Let others play the dirty games. He wanted none of it. And yet he
could understand all too well the causes of the Revolution.
The old system had been corrupt beyond belief. It was a land of privilege, for the privileged. Most nobles were exempt from paying taxes, and estates were still run under feudalistic rules. As for the government, it seemed that you were either born into it or had to buy your way in. Paris itself was envied and hated by every other town of consequence, and these
towns went out of their way to be abstruse, taking advantage of the lack of central government to change any legislation which might irritate the capital. And when it came to the law, in Paris and its surrounds Roman Law held sway, yet all the Germanic towns, like Ney’s own Saarlouis, used the 285 Customary Codes.
Perhaps things might have continued, were it not for the new breed of philosophers. Ney had himself read Montesquieu’s L’Esprit des Lois, which openly preached a limit to the power of the king, and of course Voltaire, who pathologically hated the church and all privilege. The great General Lafayette had returned from the war in America imbued with a new
spirit of democracy, aided and abetted by the American ambassador, Benjamin Franklin.
It was the government’s financial difficulties in 1788 that brought the matter to a head. The king had been obliged to call a meeting of the Estates General, which this time wanted some real power. This began on the 5th of May, 1789, and it quickly became apparent that the repressed members of the Third Estate had had enough. They refused to take a back
seat, much to Louis XVI’s disapproval. This new vigour was taken up by a rejuvenated Paris mob who stormed the Bastille prison-fortress on July 14th, and the subsequently ousted the lawyers and doctors who had until then dominated the Third Estate.
Ney shuddered at the thought of honest soldiers being murdered by the mob. Most would have been no better themselves, he reasoned. He was infinitely glad to have not been there. He sat, staring into the cobwebs in the high beamed ceiling of the office, his father’s letter forgotten. He had heard that the king had publicly adopted the tricolour cockade, yet who knew what his motives were?
The motives of the mob were equally confusing to Ney. around Metz there had been numerous cases of arson and robbery, yet when it had been decided to use the local garrison troops to guard against such behaviour the idea had met with a surprising level of discontent. Of course Ney had been party to the usual barrack-room debates, yet he had been surprised by the intensity of feeling when it finally surfaced. The attitudes of the officers had changed, and many appeared far less certain of their authority, particularly
those who in the past had been the first to wield the whip.
Ney himself had thought that things would settle with the emergence of the moderate reformer Mirabeau, whose ideas seemed reasonable to Ney, and apparently even the king was believed to support them. Strangely it had been the king’s support which had damaged Mirabeau, and the idea had collapsed the previous autumn. It seemed that the whole country
knew not where it was headed, like a ship without a captain. He smiled. A soldier using a nautical analogy.
The outer door to the building suddenly burst open, spilling in three hussars. Ney quickly thrust the unfinished letter back into the open draw whilst the soldiers brushed snow from the pelisses which each wore over their dolmans.
“Christ, but it’s cosy in here!” barked a tall brigadier, his black hair styled the same as Ney’s own pigtails. “You’ve got it easy again, eh Rougeot?”
“Go warm yourself by the fire, Guidry, and stop pissing snow on my floor,” laughed Ney, slipping into the easy army vulgarity that passed for conversation. The others chuckled too, removing soggy shakos and moving towards the small but comfortable fireplace which Ney primarily ignored, but which Captain d’Aubreme insisted be kept alive.
“I don’t know how you can stick this cold, Rusty,” said Thierry, another of the gaggle of NCOs of whom Ney was now a part.
“He has ice in his veins,” advised Dupré, the third of the hussars. “Don’t you Rusty?”
“Just iron,” replied Ney, enjoying the banter and still revelling in the first nickname he had ever been given in his life.
The door to Captain d’Aubreme’s office creaked open, and the captain poked his head around the side. “Keep it quiet out here, you rabble. I’m trying to sleep.” It was a good humoured warning that an officer was present in the next room, and the hussars appreciated it for the gesture that it was.
“Sorry sir,” said Thierry, the ranking sergeant, stiffly.
D’Aubreme smiled fleetingly and vanished. The door closed.
“A good man,” observed Dupré, and the others nodded earnestly, nevertheless dropping their voices to a more discreet level. “When the time comes I hope that his like survive.”
The others looked sternly at him. “What time?” asked Guidry.
“You think that things have gone so far only to stop?” said Dupré, answering the question with another. “Only blood will now end this affair.”
“So what do I owe the pleasure of your exalted company to?” questioned Ney, uncomfortable with Dupré’s blunt view of politics and wanting to change the subject onto more comfortable ground, whilst deliberately unbuttoning his stable jacket to show off his resilience.
“It’s tonight,” said Thierry, flicking his head in mock disdain at Ney’s childish gesture. “Do it up man, for heaven’s sake. We all know what a Hercules you are.”
“I’ve bested him at wrestling,” pointed out the barrel-like Dupré.
“That’s because he couldn’t tell which way you were looking,” Guidry replied affably. He was considered the most handsome NCO in the regiment, and his decidedly casual style had been carefully groomed to a point where he knew no other way. The possibility that his friend might be sensitive about his slightly crossed eyes did not occurr to him.
“I resent that,” complained Dupré, not sounding genuine. “Anyway, how can a fellow fight another fellow whose head is on fire?”
They all laughed, sharing the tirade of personal abuse which marked each out as a friend. It was a style much adopted in the army, yet plainly misunderstood by civilians who always assumed that the cavalrymen were on the verge of coming to blows.
“What’s tonight?” probed Ney, suspecting the answer.
“It’s tonight that Jacqueminot fillets that bastard from the de Vintimilles, of course,” said Dupré.
Ney raised one auburn eyebrow. “So soon?”
“That vermin de Carignac’s been shouting his mouth off about how scared we all are of him,” said Thierry. “Let’s hope that the Old Fox can best him.”
“I’d be happier with my sous if it were Michel facing him,” observed Guidry.
A silence fell suddenly upon the gathering. Each felt the same doubts; that Jacqueminot - the Old Fox -was too old. That de Carignac, ten years his junior, was a proven killer. Had he not gutted an artillery corporal once for just denouncing horses as dog’s meat?
“Fear not, mes braves,” said Thierry bluffly. “The Chasseurs will be laughing on the other side of their saddles tonight.”
“Laughing on the other side of their saddles?” asked Guidry, sarcastically.
“Or whatever the saying is,” said Thierry, unmoved by the raillery. “Anyway, be ready at eight, Rusty. Full dress if you please. We have to look our best.”
“Where is it to be held?” asked Ney.
“Don’t know, yet,” Thierry admitted. “Best kept secret for as long as possible. Don’t want any bloody gendarmes buggering up the entertainment, do we?”
They all guffawed again and Ney decided that he was not going to get much more work done that morning.
By Whim of Fate Book the First in the Ney Chronicles: An Historical Novel
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