By the Whim of Fate
Book the First
in the Ney Chronicles
An Historical Novel
Chapter 4
Copyright © Ben Longstreet, 2001
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The outer chamber of the Quartermaster’s Office was once more the home to a small but active fire, though as ever Ney would have happily sufficed without it. It was the first of the new winter. Nevertheless his officer preferred to keep warm as did the regular succession of visitors who paraded through to see the Quartermaster. It did however require Ney to sit in his shirtsleeves, much to the amusement of his friends.
The duel of New Year’s Day now seemed a lifetime ago, yet it had been an unpleasant time to be a hussar in Metz. Since his effortless victory, de Carignac had
prowled the town like a hawk, intimidating any members of the regiment that he came across. The man had always been a bully, but it seemed that with his increased
reputation came a more unpleasant and odious personality, if that were indeed possible. Certainly he never missed an opportunity to curse the Colonel-General’s
regiment, nor threaten any of its members, bolstered as he was by a growing band of cronies from the chasseurs. In short he had become a miniature tyrant.
Throughout the summer the hussars had lamented their position, yet none would stand up to have de Carignac ruin their careers, such a reputation had he forged. It
was a time of great potential for the common man, and being crippled or worse like poor old Jacqueminot was not an endearing fate. The only man in the regiment who it was felt had any chance against de Carignac was Michel Ney, and the young brigadier was staunchly unprepared to fight a man who had not personally affronted him.
“You’re so damned stiff, Rusty,” Thierry had remonstrated, on more than one occasion. “Half the lads are afraid to go into the knocking shops.”
But Ney was adamant: “Every man has his own code of honour, and I shall not fight for any but my own.”
So the little tyranny continued, and de Carignac became all the more puffed up, whilst discontent within the hussars paradoxically centred upon Ney, whom many considered had some kind of duty to defend the unit’s collective honour. It had not worn well with Ney himself, and ironically he had nearly come to blows with several members of his own regiment. It had left him moody and frustrated, and for the first time in his military career his friends saw this brooding and dark countenance which Ney found so difficult to shed. Unable to maintain a line of thought, Ney looked sadly at the hay-strewn floor, watching the flames of the fire gambol about, and the snow gently waft in the cold November air. It was six days since his father’s second letter of the year, and this was even worse than the first, for it brought tragic news of a far more personal nature than the brewing of revolution. His mother had died. The illness which had so debilitated her had finally called for a reckoning. Pierre Ney’s letter was agony for his son’s eyes, and it was all he could do not to shed tears. Yet he would not cry.
Never again, he promised himself. Never! It has been a bad year, all things considered. He physically shook himself, trying to chase the melancholy from his bones, but it would not easily relinquish its grip. Damn! The rusting hinges on the outer door groaned in agony as the door swung open, revealing a single snow-drenched hussar, who stomped hurriedly into the room. He arched his head quickly at the door to the Quartermaster’s Office, and was relieved when Ney shook his head in reply. Captain d’Aubreme was still away on home leave, and the chronic shortage of officers meant that Ney was unofficially acting
Quartermaster.
“You should wear loose overalls more often. It hides the shape of your legs.”
“Cheeky pup,” said Thierry, now Regimental Sergeant-Major following the unwelcome vacancy. He shrugged off his heavy riding cloak, revealing another
civilian wrap over his pelisse.
“Cold, Sergeant-Major?” teased Ney, unconsciously relieved to have a distraction this day.
“In heart and body, my lad.” Replied Thierry, his voice abruptly despondent. “What is it?”
“Old Jacqueminot’s dead. Seems he contracted a chill and his body just couldn’t fight it. I reckon it’s a mercy, to be honest. The poor fellow really died the night of the duel.”
“That bastard de Carignac,” said Ney, feeling the hot swell of anger replacing the chilly gloom he had been suffering. Thierry paused, surprised by the unanticipated vehemence. Perhaps his friend was intending to fight the chasseur after all. He hoped so, for Ney’s own sake. Few enough of his friends still spoke to him away from matters of duty. Ney saw the quizzical look on the sergeant-major’s face and explained: “My mother died on the fourth.” It was the bluff, straightforward style that was fast becoming his trademark.
Thierry shook his head in sadness. “I’m sorry Michel. Truly. God’s teeth, it’s been a bad year.”
“Both of you have got more lace on your sleeves now than when it started,” said a voice from the Quartermaster’s Office. The door had been a good two inches ajar, but Ney had not entered it that day and had not bothered to close it.
They twisted around, startled by the voice.
Corporal Guidry prodded the door open with his boot, and leant casually against the frame.
“What the hell are you doing in there?” asked Ney, the question echoed by Thierry a second later.
“If you must know, sleeping,” said Guidry, unconcerned by their bewildered expressions.
“Don’t you have your own quarters?” asked Thierry, suddenly the sergeant-major.
“Not for what I had in mind,” Guidry replied, glancing behind him, from whence sounded a feminine giggle.
Ney rolled his eyes in disbelief. “No,” was all he could muster, shaking his head.
“Yes, I’m afraid,” said Guidry. “Now.that you two are here, I was rather hoping you might help me get the filly out of here.”
“The colonel will have your hide if he finds out,” said Thierry, knowing that he should not be so surprised at Guidry’s latest escapade. Their comrade was a terrible
womaniser, and was none too choosy about where he cast his net.
“Normally I’m awake before now,” Guidry explained lamely.
“You’ve done this before!” blurted out Ney, quickly remembering to lower his voice.
Guidry merely smiled in reply, instead answering his own words. “Yes, normally awake by now. Mind you, last night was a bit special, eh Suzette?” Another giggle.
Guidry dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Actually she’s got a face like a Cossack’s pony, but marvellous tits.” He thoughtfully moved from the doorway,
revealing the interior of the office. The big desk had been pushed to one side and lying on a nest of blankets was a completely unembarrassed woman.
“She’s old enough to be your mother,” said Thierry. Then he looked guiltily at Ney, realising what he had said.
“What is it?” asked Guidry, seeing the interaction. “So you haven’t been listening to everything then?” said Ney, smiling weakly to show Thierry that the wound had not been deep.
“Rusty’s old lady has died,” Thierry advised. “So a bit of decorum, if you please.”
“Oh, sorry,” said Guidry, looking back into the room. “Come on girl, cover those udders up, and look to tidying the bed. This is the army, you know.”
The others chuckled helplessly, shaking their heads in mock despondency. Nevertheless they both took the opportunity to stare at Suzette as she pulled on her
flimsy shift, her body suggesting that she was not as old as her well-worn features had implied.
“My cloak has a hood,” said Thierry. “She can wear that. In return I want her address though. I assume you haven’t got the pox, Suzette?”
“Oh no, captain,” she said earnestly, bringing a sudden blush to the sergeant-major.
“Don’t get too excited, Pierre. She calls me colonel.”
“Which part of you?” asked Thierry, lewdly. He looked back at Ney, noting his sudden lapse into reticence. The red-headed corporal was staring once more at his letter, their buxom trespasser forgotten.
“Come on Guidry, get her out of here. Take this.” He thrust the cloak at Guidry, releasing it before contact had been joined and leaving the dashing hussar to
awkwardly snatch at the cloth. Then he nodded quickly, seeing Ney’s bowed head. Suzette, now covered by the cloak was ushered towards the door.
“Wait,” ordered Thierry. “It will be better if I take her. No-one will question my authority. If anybody asks I’ll think of something. She can be applying for work as
the colonel’s maid.”
“A likely story,” Guidry replied, referring to Thierry’s first assertion. “You just want to find out where she lives.”
“Rank has its privileges. Now, come on my little minx.” With that Thierry wrapped an arm about Suzette’s shoulder and guided her towards the snow-covered
yard. Guidry turned to look down at Ney. “When did she die?”
“On the fourth,” Ney replied, after a short delay. His mind had been wandering and he had guessed at Guidry’s question. Seeing that he had assumed correctly, he
continued: “She had been ill for some time. I was just feeling a bit guilty.”
“Why?”
“She never wanted me to go into the army. My brother was always telling her that he was joining, and she didn’t want to lose us both.”
“Mothers cannot live their sons’ lives for them,” Guidry said, sagely. Ney looked up, surprised by his friend’s profundity. They shared the intimacy of the moment, dragging it out; each enjoying the feeling. Ney wished that he could tell his friend as much, but it was not the done thing. Anyway, it would make him uncomfortable. Instead he said simply: “Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Guidry casually, and the moment was gone. “I see that bastard de Carignac has been shouting his mouth off again. He actually drew his
blade on one of our lads in town last night.” Ney grunted a response, which he intended as confirmation that he was still not interested in anybody else’s problems.
“I don’t understand you sometimes, Ney. If he crossed you just once I think that you would call him out. Yet he abuses the name of the regiment and you care not at all.”
“If you care so much, you call him out,” Ney suggested, irritated that as ever the subject had come around to this.
“Quite simply, I can’t best him,” said Guidry frankly. “The regiment’s honour is at stake here. If word got around that we had lost twice to him the bastard would be
unbearable.”
“According to you he is now.”
“If the regiment was important enough to upset your own mother, then it must mean something to you,” he probed, trying a different tack.
“I didn’t join a regiment. I joined the army.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes, David. To me.”
“How?”
Ney could see that his companion would not let the matter drop. Ney rarely spoke of such personal matters, and Guidry sensed an opportunity to learn more of his
friend. “I don’t know how to put this without sounding arrogant or conceited.” Ney took a deep breath. “I believe that I am destined for some greatness.”
“What?” asked Guidry, more than a hint of surprised humour in his voice.
“There, I knew you would laugh,” said Ney, annoyed with himself for opening his defences.
Guidry paused, sensing the sincerity in his friend’s voice. “No. I’m sorry, go on.”
Ney had not intended to. In fact, he had been about to kick Guidry out of the office, but something in his friend’s tone changed his mind. He decided to continue. “When I was young our father used to tell Jean and I about the wars. Frederick the Great; Rossbach…”
“…we lost that,” Guidry interjected, waving Ney to continue as he immediately regretted the interruption.
“As I was saying. Frederick the Great, Rossbach, the army life. It instantly appealed to me. I don’t think he knew the effect it was having on the two of us. I
remember not being able to wait for him to finish work in the evenings, so that he could tell us more of war. If I told you that I believe I am destined for greatness would
you think me mad?”
“Yes,” said Guidry, frankly. Then thinking on he added: “Perhaps not. After all, who can tell. You are the best all-in cavalryman I have ever met. You ride
superbly and as I keep telling you, you could best de Carignac, and most others for that matter, with a blade. Granted you are a trifle slow with the ladies, but at least you look the part, and a fellow can’t have everything. After all, you could look like poor old Dupré!”
They both laughed at the thought of the dumpy, cross-eyed corporal..A swirl of snow greeted the return of Thierry. They both expected to hear him talk of the luscious Suzette, but instead he said: “Rusty, can you come over to the mess at once, if you please. There is a matter needing your attention.” With that he was gone.
Guidry shrugged in answer to Ney’s questioning look. “Best go then. We shouldn’t keep the sergeant-major waiting.” Easing himself up, Ney unhooked his dolman from the coat stand in the corner of the room, waiting whilst Guidry collected the remains of his uniform from d’Aubreme’s office. Then together they headed across the yard.
The NCOs’ Mess was built in exactly the same style as every other building in the barracks, except that the single door had been replaced by an opening large enough to allow the entrance of a horse. A traditional part of the entertainment when the non-coms had guests. Today the double doors were shut tight, and the snow which had lodged in the fat hinges was beginning to freeze. Ney could hear murmuring from inside, and was not surprised on entering to see that the three long tables were filled with hussars. Not just corporals and sergeants either. There were a large number of troopers as well, and they all looked earnestly at Ney as Guidry ushered him in, deliberately barring the door behind him.
“What’s going on?” asked Ney, suspiciously.
“We have a favour to ask you,” said Thierry, stepping forward. There was an expectant silence. The inkling of a supposition began to arrive in Ney’s mind, but he was determined not to say anything. Whatever was to be said, must be said by others.
“Very well,” said Thierry, continuing. “We want you to fight de Carignac. For the honour of the regiment.”
“No,” said Ney, flatly. He looked accusingly at Guidry, realising that before had been a preamble to this. “And you all know very well why.”
“I know all your reasons for not calling him out,” said Thierry. “But this is different. Every man here feels humiliated by what de Carignac is doing, and it has to stop.”
“Then somebody else stop it.”
“Nobody else can. Not for certain. You are the finest blade we have, and it is your duty to fight for the honour of the regiment.” A chorus of agreement followed, and Guidry looked quickly through the frosted windows to make sure that the impromptu meeting was not attracting attention.
Ney looked at the faces arrayed before him. He understood how they felt, but how could he tell them as he had tried to tell Guidry that this was not his way. Had he crossed paths with de Carignac then no doubt things would be different, but the amount of work demanded of the Quartermaster’s clerk was considerable, and fate
had decreed that the two had not met.
A movement from the back of the room caught his eye. A man in green stood up, having been concealed in a thick cloak beforehand. At first Ney had a wild notion that it was de Carignac, but he saw that it was the chasseur captain, Albert, who had been at the duel. Albert strode between two of the tables, chairs scraping as a path was made for him. In his hand was a piece of paper, and instinctively Ney knew that the paper had life and death written on it.
Captain Albert saw the stare, and nodded in agreement. “Brigadier Ney. I have a message for you.” He held out the letter. Ney felt a drop of excitement. Then from a drop it became a stream, and by the time he held the letter it had become a torrent. It was a feeling that he had only experienced before when training at
the charge. When the trumpets were sounding. When the hooves were beating the ground to pulp. It was so intense that he ached. It was so intense that it almost aroused him. It was so intense that in front of him he saw not Albert, but de Carignac, prostrate on the ground. He knew what the letter would say. He opened it.
You are a coward who only avoids me because he fears to stand alongside Jacqueminot. You are a shame to your family. The poorly
written note was unsigned.
Ney’s already ruddy complexion grew redder still, and he crushed the paper into a ball, casting it on the floor. Then he nodded slowly. “Yes,” was his only word, before turning smartly on his heel and unbarring the door before heading out into the snow. Captain Albert bent down and picked up the note that he had forged. It had been a stroke of luck, adding the part about the family. He had not known that Ney’s mother had died, but it had been perfect. He looked at the huge log fire which roared warmth into the large room and expertly cast the ball into it, destroying his handiwork.
“Monsieur de Carignac must want to fight very badly, sir,” said Thierry. “That letter was the one thing that would get Ney to fight”
“Yes, I had heard that Ney was exceedingly stubborn where his honour is concerned. I also hear that he is a fine swordsman, sergeant-major.”
“The finest we have, sir” Guidry confirmed. A number of nearby voices rumbled their assent.
Captain Albert nodded thoughtfully, before making a quick gesture which saw his cloak rapidly dance along the tables towards him. Snatching it without thanks, the cavalry officer for whom a personal debt - a debt which was gained by, and could only be cleared by gambling - far exceeded any foolish notions about honour,
draped the cape over his shoulders, and crammed an oilskin-covered bicorne over his head, before following Ney out into the snow.
By Whim of Fate Book the First in the Ney Chronicles: An Historical Novel
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