By the Whim of Fate
Book the First
in the Ney Chronicles
An Historical Novel
Chapter 3
Copyright © Ben Longstreet, 2001
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The venue for the duel had once been a vast barn on the outskirts of Metz, which had recently been abandoned to its fate following the arson attempts of local Jacobins. It surprised Ney that the incendiaries had not been more successful. The place was a mishmash of wooden sub-structures added to a basic square building which must have been a hundred years old. He could see scorch marks against the front wall where the owner had fitted cavernous beamed doors.
These however, had withstood the heat without apparent difficulty.
“Didn’t try too bloody hard,” Thierry observed, nodding at the walls.
“Probably just making a point,” suggested Dupré. “I daresay that half of them work on the local farms. There is something of a difference when you have to work at the place.”
“The Paris mobs are burning down anything in sight,” said Ney. “Or so I have heard.”
“Hearsay,” Guidry answered, swinging down from his mount and handing it to a young trooper from the regiment who had been requisitioned as a groom.
“Plenty here,” surveyed Thierry, changing the subject.
They looked through the open doors, seeing upwards of twenty men already in the building. Both duellists were already in attendance, each surrounded by a few of their cronies. Jacqueminot’s companions were three senior NCOs from the Colonel-General Hussars, all grey-moustached veterans. Ney noticed that they looked sombre, talking quietly amongst
themselves, their mannerisms suggesting that the talk was of tactics and fencing. Not surprising.
De Carignac meanwhile appeared in the highest of spirits. He had already shed his green uniform jacket and was holding a silver goblet, taking large drafts from its contents. Around him were a half dozen other members of the Chasseurs de Vintimille, all wearing stable dress.
“Scruffy bastards,” grunted Guidry, decked as he was in full uniform.
“They know they aren’t as pretty as us,” said Dupré. “So they’re not trying.”
“Well, some of us,” riposted Guidry mockingly.
“We can’t all be tall Hectors,” Dupré asserted.
“I see he’s wearing silk,” said Ney, looking at de Carignac’s shirt. “He can’t be too confident.”
“Just a precaution, my dear Rusty,” replied Thierry. The wearing of silk was commonplace amongst duellists, for if the material were to become lodged in an open wound it was far easier to remove than cotton.
Ney looked around for a surgeon, and saw that the drunk who passed for one of the town’s three doctors was standing in the shadow of one of the four great iron nests, one on each wall, which had been specially brought and filled with wood to provide the flickering light which haunted the barn. The sound of a sudden gust of wind moaned through the audience, and Ney saw more than one cross himself superstitiously. He looked out through the open doors and saw a fresh flurry of snow eddy about the breach.
The crowd continued to grow, reaching upwards of fifty, shuffling in before shaking snow from outer garments or cloaks, and Ney wondered how they had managed to keep they affair secret from the officers. Then he remembered d’Aubreme’s words earlier, and he pondered how many other officers knew and were keeping quiet. Certainly Colonel Gourgaud must not know. The colonel was an absolute stickler for the rules, and the rules declared that duelling was currently illegal; punishable by imprisonment and court martial. Ney wondered what Gourgaud would do were he to behold this spectacle. Technically everyone present was open to arrest, but doing so would strip more than half the garrison’s NCOs from their regiments, for as well as the two units directly involved, he could see the dark blue of gunners and the white of the infantry.
“The Master would have a fit if he saw this,” said Guidry, using the rankers’ uncomplimentary epithet for their colonel.
Ney looked quickly at him, struck once more by the harmony of his friends’ thoughts. Then again, what else is there to consider, he mused. He put it to one side as Dupré nudged him lightly in the ribs.
“Bloody God! That’s Captain Albert of the Chasseurs, isn’t it?” asked Dupré, clearly surprised.
“Why not?” replied Sergeant Thierry, a few years older than the others, and who had seen this all before. “Do you think that officers don’t like a bit of sport as well?”
“Do they not duel amongst themselves?” said Ney. It was no more than half a question, for it was common knowledge that their ‘betters’ still sorted out matters of honour with blades.
The observation went unanswered, for at that moment a signal from a short man in long black frock coat caused the doors of the barn to be shut tight and barred from the inside. An expectant hush simmered through the gathered throng.
“Gentlemen, if you please,” said the man, whom Ney knew to be the Regimental Sergeant Major of the garrison’s artillery company, although his name escaped him. The gunner’s voice was as billowy and gruff as his cannons as he motioned the two combatants forward with short brisk gestures. He has done this before, thought Ney, impressed. The two duellist marched slowly towards the Master of Ceremonies as the waiting spectators all moved to one side of the room or the other, sifting quickly to areas of obvious loyalty. Bets began to be
taken, and a rising clamour began as men tried to get the best odds that they could.
“Are you putting anything on Jacqueminot?” Guidry asked Ney.
The red-head shook his proud flaming locks in a gesture which Guidry understood to be negative.
“Not very loyal, Rusty,” he added, without malice.
“I can’t afford to lose,” said Ney flatly. “Not a sous.”
“Still flat broke, eh? You need a good war, old man. Loot a few bloody Austrians.”
Ney smiled, amused by his friend’s happy-go-lucky approach to life.
“Five francs on the hussar!” Guidry shouted merrily at a corporal from the infantry.
“Five? Taken!” came the reply.
The two sides, each peppered by a few neutrals had started to come together, the taste of money overcoming any personal animosity.
The gunnery sergeant, whom Ney had overheard named as Avrillon had been whispering a few words to the two combatants, and both were seen to shake their
heads. “Gentlemen!” he then began, clearly addressing the congregation, and with it came almost instant silence. “We are here on a matter of honour. Henri de Carignac, sword master of the Chasseurs de Vintimille has been heard to publicly cast aspersions on the good name and integrity of the Regiment Colonel-General. Who comes tonight to defend that honour?”
“I,” said Jacqueminot, directly. Rigorously.
“De Carignac, Anton Jacqueminot, Maréchal de Logis Chef of the Colonel-General’s stands before you. Do you withdraw your remarks?”
“I do not!” roared de Carignac fiercely, to a mixture of cheers and hisses.
“Then kindly repeat them now so that all may judge that this is a matter demanding satisfaction.”
“Gladly,” said de Carignac, an inclement look brushing his features. “I said that the Colonel-General regiment are a pack of undisciplined hounds, not one of whom could stand up in fair fight, and that Jacqueminot here was the cravenest dog of the lot. Is that about it?” he added, turning to the sergeant who had stepped forward as his Second. Even before he
had finished a number of roars from hussars cut across his speech.
“I believe so,” the Second confirmed. There was a rush of discord from amongst the audience, and even a few of the Chasseurs looked distinctly uncomfortable at their fencing master’s words.
“You’re a bloody dog!” shouted Guidry, incensed, and unable to contain his emotions. De Carignac looked viciously into the crowd, looking for the speaker. He was unable to locate
Guidry, so settled for a general address: “If you want, you can be next!”
“Settle down!” Avrillon ordered. “Remember where you are!” A hush quickly returned to the proceedings. It did not take much to remind the ensemble that death was in the air, and Avrillon had the sort of voice that did not brook contention. Ney imagined that he could probably be heard above his whole battery.
“Take back those words,” said Jacqueminot, his voice a hiss of anger. He looked to Ney suddenly very old, and once more he was reminded of his father.
“Take them back I say!”
“I have nothing to take back,” de Carignac replied, haughtily. “Nothing I have said has been a lie.” He stared pointedly at his opponent, but was unable to make the older man wilt.
“In that case, gentlemen,” said Avrillon, interjecting, “I suggest we get to business. Sabres, I presume?”
Both men nodded. It was a rarity for pistols to be used by any other than officers and even then rarely. As both men were fencers of renown, the choice had never been in much doubt. Turning with a slight gesture of his arm, Avrillon returned with a pair of shining light cavalry sabres, the triple-barred brass hilts shining in the flickering light They had both been
sharpened on edge and point, making them lethal.
Neither was sheathed and the gunner held them with obvious respect across outstretched palms. Without a word, each duellist took a blade and turned his back, walking five paces away, before beginning to limber up, neither apparently concerned as to the other. Ney watched his sergeant major once more go through the motions he had watched that morning. At some point previously Jacqueminot had suffered a cut on his right hand, and it affected his grip. Ney could clearly see the scar trickling up out of sight under his shirt sleeve. It seemed to meander like a stream. He seemed painfully slow.
De Carignac meanwhile had settled himself with two broad cuts through the smoke filled gloom, slicing the air with a perfect balance, and grinning at the satisfying swish of his blade as it displaced the haze from the torches.
“Gentlemen, please,” said Avrillon, and the two turned. Without prompting both brought their sabres vertical and touched the flat of their blades to their foreheads. Jacqueminot was still wearing his dolman, and Ney wondered whether the veteran had forgotten to remove it.
“Begin!”
The two fighters circled each other briefly, and before the fight had begun it had ended. Jacqueminot had lunged straight at his opponent, but instead of parrying de Carignac had simply gracefully swayed to one side, slicing his own blade across and up towards Jacqueminot’s head. The crunch of metal on flesh was one which Ney had never heard in anger before, and he involuntarily winced. By that time, Jacqueminot was sprawled on the ground. His left ear had gone, carried away by his opponent’s blade, which had continued on its path to cleave into the side of his head. The wound appeared instantly deep, and the blue dolman was stained a darkening red before Jacqueminot hit the ground.
“Surgeon! Surgeon!” Avrillon shouted, and the doctor nervously emerged from the crowd, clearly dismayed by the nature of the wound.
De Carignac was laughing. “By the grace of God! I haven’t even broken sweat. Is this old dog the best that you can throw at me? Come on you bastards, who’s next?”
“De Carignac! Show some dignity!” Avrillon ordered. “Remember where you are. This is a field of honour, not a goddamned street brawl. Get your hide out of here, before someone takes you at your word.”
For a moment it appeared that de Carignac was considering using the bloodied sabre on the artilleryman, but he suddenly reversed the blade and dropped it at the referee’s feet. “I believe that I have won?” he said smoothly. “And have been proven correct.” With that he motioned to his entourage, catching his green jacket as he departed. A few remembered their bets and returned to where the bookmakers were beginning to dole out cash. It was clear that they were displeased by the outcome. The hussars were gathered around their fallen
sergeant, and had to be pushed back to allow the doctor working room.
“Is he dead?” someone asked.
“Shut your mouth!” snapped Thierry.
“Everybody back. Let the hatchet man do his worst.”
The doctor looked up, irritated by Thierry’s insult, but a look into the sergeant’s brooding eyes told him it would be better to get on with his worst. Leaning over the wounded man, the doctor peeled back the scalp wound, examining the injury. After a long look he folded the cut skin together. Then he examined each eye in turn, opening them wide and
staring in. Then he shook his head, sadly.
“What? Is he dead?” asked Thierry, forgetting that he had just silenced a man asking the same question.
“No, but I fear he may as well be. I have seen injuries like this before. His eyes are dead, yet he lives. One thing is for certain. He will never be a hussar again.”
The surrounding men gasped in shock, unnerved by the official statement, which their own eyes already perceived.
“Could you be wrong?” asked Ney, speaking aloud what many were thinking. The doctor was not known for his great authority.
“I could,” suggested the doctor, sounding insincere.
“There’s going to be hell to pay.” It was Captain Albert of the Chasseurs. The men drew back, worried at the sight of the officer who until now had remained quietly in the background. Few had even known that he had been present, and none wished to directly address him.
Nobody spoke.
“De Carignac’s insolence is regrettable, gentlemen,” Albert carried on. “However unless you want this matter to get out of hand you would be advised to do as I say.”
The gathered soldiers were not used to an officer speaking so candidly, yet Albert was perhaps in the greatest peril of all. His career would be wrecked if his presence at an NCOs’ duel were made public.
“What do you suggest, sir?” asked Avrillon, irritated that his duties had been usurped, and realising hat it was his place to take the lead. Albert paused, thinking. Rubbing his chin, he said: “A riding accident, I think.”
“That won’t be believed” said an anonymous voice.
“Not so,” interrupted Avrillon, eager to prove that the idea might just as easily been his. “Whilst it may be common knowledge that Jacqueminot got this in a duel,” he stopped, gesturing at the vegetable which had been the RSM, “I believe that it will serve nobody’s interests to admit that they were incapable of stopping such a happening.”
“Exactly, sergeant,” confirmed Albert, relieved that his own career would now be safe. “There will be a stink, gentlemen, but it will be a private one, rest assured. One word of advice though. I shouldn’t run another one of these for a while, eh?” Ney was surprised, and slightly annoyed by Albert. The man behaved as if he had attended the duel not expecting anyone to actually get hurt. What had he expected then?
Muttered agreement passed amongst those who had not already departed, and it was clear that to many the possibility of this occurrence had not presented itself. Ney looked down sadly at the figure of his father, his glazed eyes clearing and replacing his father’s features with the sergeant major’s.
“Who is to find this accident?” asked Avrillon. Silence.
“It had best be I,” said the hussar who had been Jacqueminot’s Second. “We sometimes rode together.”
“That seems eminently sensible,” said Captain Albert over his shoulder as he departed. “Now where’s that dog Otto? Bugger owes me money.”
By Whim of Fate Book the First in the Ney Chronicles: An Historical Novel
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