By the Whim of Fate
Book the First
in the Ney Chronicles
An Historical Novel
Chapter 5
Copyright © Ben Longstreet, 2002
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The huge barn looked just as it had the night that Jacqueminot had stood where Ney himself stood now. He was not scared. He could sense his own heartbeat rising, but it brought nothing more than a breeze of excitement which blew gently through him. What is there to fear? Death is my stock in trade.
Ney tugged at the sleeve of the long silk shirt which Captain d’Aubreme had lent him. It had not surprised him that the quartermaster had known. Not now. D’Aubreme knew everything, or so it seemed. Maybe he even knew about Guidry’s unauthorised use of his office.
The sound of the huge beamed doors creaking open brought Ney’s attention back to the business in hand. He looked up.
“About damned time,” grunted Thierry.
De Carignac swaggered into the glowing hall, his green cloak tricked with fresh snow. With a practised expertise he undid the fastening chain at his throat with one hand, before casually sliding it onto one shoulder. His eyes flickered about the room, searching. He reminded Ney of a weasel. A dangerous weasel. Ney wondered who de Carignac was looking for. It clearly was not himself, for he was standing in bold view of his opponent.
De Carignac’s sweeping gaze came to rest on a figure seated in a secluded corner of the barn. So dark was it that Ney had not before picked out the figure, and he was still unable to identify the man. He saw de Carignac nod, before turning to face his adversary and swaggering easily forward.
“Puffed up bastard,” Thierry muttered under his breath.
“Michel will soon carve that out of him,” opined Guidry.
“We shall see, mes braves,” said Ney, scowling at Guidry who appeared very confident on his behalf.
“What? Doubts?” asked Dupré nervously, his small piggy eyes looking worried.
“No, not doubts, Auguste,” Ney replied, gently clapping the stocky hussar’s shoulder. “Rather I have learnt never to take anything for granted. It is better that way.”
“Pah!” scoffed Guidry. “You’ll cut him to pieces.”
“We shall see,” Ney repeated, eliciting another grunt of contempt from Guidry. They all chuckled.
De Carignac looked around at the sound, apparently irritated by it. He was unable to see why the red-headed hussar was so happy. In a few minutes he would go the same way as Jacqueminot. True, the reports said that Ney was faster and of course much younger, but Captain Albert had assured de Carignac that they were not in the same class. Albert had even offered to take odds on de Carignac’s behalf. His cut would be substantial, the captain had promised. Avrillon, the artillery sergeant major, was once more Master of Ceremonies, and at a signal from him the doors were closed and fresh tinder filled the iron grates, causing the room to erupt in a flare of light. Only the dark corners, such as the one in which Albert had secreted himself remained dim.
“Gentlemen, if you please,” said Avrillon, motioning the duellists towards him. Both stepped forward, accompanied by their seconds. Ney had chosen Thierry, having had to quietly apologise to each of the others, to prevent hurt feelings. He had felt proud that three other men had wanted to stand for him. Now he watched de
Carignac ambling easily towards him, a goblet of wine moving regularly to his lips.
“Gentlemen! We are here on a matter of honour. Michel Ney, brigadier of the Colonel-General Hussars has called Henri de Carignac of the Chasseurs de Vintimille both coward and miscreant. Ney, your litigant stands before you tonight. Will you withdraw these remarks?”
“I cannot,” said Ney, plainly.
“Then please repeat your words now, so that all here can judge that this is a matter requiring satisfaction.”
“De Carignac,” Ney began, “you are a cowardly bully who only picks on those who you know can be bested. Now you must answer
to someone for your deeds.”
“It will be you that gets the answers, Ginger!” scoffed de Carignac.
A glare of disapproval from Avrillon stopped any further exchange. “Sabres?” he asked.
Both men nodded. Ney suddenly wondered what would have happened if he had requested pistols.
As he had done so many times before, Avrillon neatly turned to the man behind him and re-appeared holding two wicked blades, their curves gleaming in the firelight, and previous nicks only slightly visible where they had been expertly hammered out. They rested across the gunner’s outstretched palms, and each duellist appeared to wait for the other to reach out. Then almost together they picked the hilt facing them, before stepping back out of reach.
Ney watched de Carignac, remembering him from the previous duel. The chasseur made a number of bold swings, chopping through the wispy haze, before taking his cup once more from his second. Looking at Ney, he drained the goblet. For his part, Ney neither laughed nor scowled. His face had taken on a calm tranquillity. He was more than aware of his own ability, and now was not the time to be concerned about his opponent. He took in the hall, his back to the door. He saw Albert,
now risen from his dark cranny, watching as one of his minions took bets on his behalf. The same mixed uniforms had spread out, although tonight more of a circle had been formed.
“Are you not going to test the blade?” Thierry whispered.
“No need,” Ney replied. “It will get tested soon enough.” Thierry stepped backwards, overawed at his subordinate’s coolness, and raised an impressed eyebrow at his other friends.
“Gentlemen, if you please,” said Avrillon, breaking the tension and instantly silencing the gabble of the crowd.
The duellists brought up their sabres, touching the blades to their foreheads. De Carignac was smiling viciously, but Ney’s expression remained blank.
“Begin!”
The crowd were hoping that this fight would provide substantially more entertainment than the last, and most believed that it would be a tight run affair. However, they were to be disappointed, although for wholly different reasons.
Ney held his sabre out and angled across his body, which had crouched into a compact shape that could move rapidly in practically any direction. De Carignac’s stance was similar, but his own blade moved continually, weaving a gleaming dance before Ney. The flame-haired hussar knew all about this. He had studied the art of
swordplay and knew that if you wanted to live you watched the man, not the blade. He relied purely on instinct to meet steel with steel. So he watched his opponent, reading his face, and awaiting the sign that told him what he needed to know.
When he saw a sign, it was not what he had expected. De Carignac’s face, which had been fixed in his familiar snarl suddenly changed. But instead of reading an attack, Ney saw fear sweep across the chasseur. The look unbalanced him, but before he could comprehend the reason Ney felt a sharp tug on his plaited pig-tail.
“What the hell?” he roared, swinging around furiously, his opponent ignored as he looked to see who had violated the duel.
The bellow died in his throat, for hanging menacingly onto Ney’s perfectly plaited hair was the white gloved hand of his commander, Colonel Gourgaud.
Ney sat on the narrow wooden bunk which was the only piece of furniture in his cramped cell. He listened to the regular tread of the guard patrolling outside, and the monotonous sound seemed to signal his fate. How has it come to this? I was so sure that life held something special for me. Could I have been so wrong? He groaned in despair, and heard the footsteps pause as the guard listened to his grief, before once more starting his mundane tread.
The prisoner looked across at the peeling gypsum wall, and silently cursed all his so-called comrades. What were they doing for him now? Oh, it was fine for them. Their careers were untarnished. Only he and De Carignac had been arrested, and as the chasseur had been placed in the hands of Captain Albert - who had somehow
managed to convince Gourgaud that he too had just arrived to break up the duel - it was a safe bet that the matter had not even been carried further.
I shall be out of the army. It will break father’s heart. Ney then determined never again to gamble his own honour and safety for another. It was hard at that moment for him to think clearly, yet he knew that whenever he seemed to be getting a grip on life it was torn from his hand and circumstances changed. No more though. He would look after himself and himself alone in future. Whatever that future might be.
The prospect of a return to boring civilian life hurt almost as much as did his wounded pride.
Colonel Gourgaud rested his elbows on the desk of his spacious and comfortable office. He fidgeted irritably with his white powdered wig, looking at the various pieces of furniture whilst trying to ignore the studious figure of his adjutant, Captain Revigny, who stood expectantly before him.
“This is preposterous!” exclaimed the colonel, slamming down his fist in anger, and making a pot of quills dance across the leather covered surface. “Preposterous!”
“I am afraid they insist, sir,” said Revigny helplessly.
“Insist? Insist!”
“Insist,” Revigny confirmed.
“Who the devil do they think they are?” asked Gourgaud, appalled. It was this damned revolution, of course. The bloody Third Estate. How dare they! He had been a good royalist, and had been as shocked as anyone when Louis had tried to flee to the Austrian Netherlands that April. Austria of all places! It had been a foolish
error. Those filled with revolutionary fervour condemned him as a traitor, whilst those who had remained loyal began wondering what they had remained loyal to. Gourgaud had been neither of these. He was a dyed-in-the-wool Bourbon, accepting things as he believed they had been set by God, and not understanding that only the
privileged classes still believed that the Almighty had got things right. “They are the power now, sir” said Revigny, carefully. He too was a Bourbon supporter, but without the vast wealth enjoyed by men like Gourgaud he was obliged to be more pragmatic.
“I could throw them all in the Guardhouse with Ney!” Gourgaud flared.
“Er, it may not be advisable, sir. Perhaps you would at last see the deputation?” said Revigny quickly. He knew his colonel’s temper, and he feared that an arrogant rush of blood might do untold damage, not just to Gourgaud, but also to himself, linked as he was to the colonel.
Gourgaud sensed Revigny’s concern, and looked desperately about the room, seeking divine inspiration. He was no fool. The King was now little more than a prisoner and since September the Terror had ruled Paris. Now a republic ruled France. A Republic! It hurt the colonel to even say the word, yet now it was an unavoidable fact. He had already heard rumours that ‘non-conforming’ officers had mysteriously disappeared, but he had dismissed this as idle scuttlebutt. They would not dare.
The colonel looked towards the door of his office, hearing the sound of impatient movement beyond. He saw Revigny look at the door meaningfully. He nodded, resignedly, and Revigny moved at once to open the door. The adjutant motioned to the waiting men, far too respectfully, Gourgaud noticed. He would have to talk firmly to Revigny, and inject a little muscle into his spine.
It was a deputation of the regiment’s senior NCOs, led by the sergeant major, Thierry. Amongst the seven men who entered the office were both Dupré and Guidry. To a man they looked uncomfortable, yet determined. “Garde à vous,” Thierry called them to attention.
Gourgaud studied them, taking his time before speaking. “Repos,” he said at length, allowing them to stand at ease, although obliging each man to remain in position, as the order required that the left foot remain firmly in place. It was a small victory. Thierry cleared his throat, but before he could speak Gourgaud said: “I have not given you permission to speak. Now listen to me. I am the commander of this regiment, and I will command it. Is that clear?”
“Sir!” said Thierry sharply, on behalf of them all.
“Good, then be off,” said Gourgaud, misunderstanding their mood and surprised at his own easy victory.
“I regret that we cannot,” said Thierry solemnly, the delay before he had spoken seeming a lifetime. Such a step as this was final and irreversible.
“What!” roared Gourgaud, half out of his chair. “You dare! You dare!” He became lost for words, shocked at such insubordination. Suddenly he felt droplets of perspiration popping on his forehead and beneath his arms. “I could have you all shot!” he said eventually.
Thierry swallowed hard, and took the final step. “I fear that you would be unable to find enough willing men to carry out the executions, sir.”
Gourgaud was appalled - unable to speak. It was all he could do to maintain a firm and martial disposition. It was true. All true. He had not believed it. Not really. Now he knew that the King really was dethroned, and that France was headed for ruin and destruction. He sank back into his chair, defeated.
“I could call in the guards and have you all arrested,” he said weakly.
For a reply the delegation of sergeants and corporals merely stood there ground, the force of many years’ habits holding their tongues.
“Perhaps you would tell us your requests, Sergeant-major,” offered Revigny gently, aware that he had become something of an intermediary and wanting to make sure that he had a foot in each camp. He saw that Gourgaud was staring hard at him, but could not tell whether it was gratitude or hate.
Thierry cleared his throat a second time, almost pausing for Gourgaud to interrupt, but nothing came. Thierry did not know it yet,
but he had already won. “We have come to request that Brigadier Ney be released, sir.”
“Corporal Ney is currently in custody charged with duelling. You are aware that he has committed a serious breach of discipline?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why should he be released?” Gourgaud was impressed with how calm his own voice sounded, for he half expected the meeting to end with himself and that snivelling dog Revigny butchered.
“He was defending the honour of the regiment.”
“That, sergeant major, is the oldest excuse in the book. Every duel concerns honour.”
Thierry was confused. He knew that he had already achieved more than he had ever expected, yet the knowledge of that told him that he should now be getting what they all wanted, yet Gourgaud had casually out-manoeuvred him with ease.
“What do you intend to do with Ney?” asked Revigny.
The question threw Gourgaud completely off balance. He had expected loyalty and support from the adjutant, and his guard was down. Now in a moment the scales had tilted, perhaps irrevocably. Had any of the others asked the question it could have been dealt with summarily, but here was another officer.
“Yes. What do you intend to do, sir?” pressed Guidry, stepping forward, and breaking the rank without permission. The symbolism was critical in Gourgaud’s eyes.
“He will be dismissed from the army,” Gourgaud said, flatly.
One last shot.
“I am afraid that we cannot allow that to happen, sir.” All eyes turned to the cross-eyed bullock, Dupré. Nobody had expected him to speak at all. It had certainly not been part of the plan. Nor was it in character. Dupré had always been more of a follower, yet here he had spoken words which none of the others had dared. It was treason.
Mutiny.
Gourgaud was unable to speak. He did not even know the man’s name. Now he dare not ask. His elongated silence was a mistake, which would not have mattered anyway. Now they all stepped forward, muttering loudly in agreement. The colonel knew defeat when he saw it.
It came as a surprise to all when Revigny spoke again.
“Gentlemen, please. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement which will be acceptable to all?”
They all looked, awaiting his continuance. “Clearly it will be best for regimental morale if we are seen to be in accord. After all we are all soldiers.” He paused, but the silence told him to go on. He thought quickly. “Would it be acceptable to the men if Ney were to be privately cautioned by the colonel?”
Thierry looked thoughtfully at him, a new respect in his eyes, before the NCOs clumped together in muted discussion. After some nodding of heads it was Dupré who spoke for them. “The duel must go ahead.”
“It cannot,” Gourgaud objected, weakly. “It’s against regulations”
“That is of no matter to us, sir. Our honour is at stake. The Chasseurs are already saying that you intervened to save us another humiliation. That cannot be.”
The colonel looked into space. He knew that he had little option. He was thinking of his own future. His Bourbon sympathies were well known, as was his reputation as a strict disciplinarian. But what he feared most was the possibility that one of his servants would now come forward and mention that on cold nights the colonel liked company in his bed. The kind of company that the church would not understand. I am finished.
He nodded. “A private reprimand and the duel goes ahead - in private.” One last win?
Dupré nodded, not even turning to his colleagues for assent. “In private, colonel.”
Gourgaud nodded, saluting with far more ease than he felt, and before he knew it the office was empty of all save Revigny. It seemed like a dream. Only his soaked shirt told him otherwise. He nodded, and the adjutant departed; and Gourgaud wondered how much baggage he could load on one horse.
It could only have been a few days, yet Ney had already lost track of time. He rubbed his bristling chin pensively, unconcerned by his appearance, but rather attempting to gauge the passing of time relative to his growth of stubble. Out of boredom he had peeled off a large section of the crumbling plaster, and it now lay about the floor like leprous skin.
Outside only the weight of the guard’s monotonous pace had changed as the duties came and went. He had received no visits, and felt himself abandoned. Cupping his head in his hands, Ney felt a sadness and desperation that he had never known. The tears were only moments away when a vision of his mother came to him. He
remembered weeping onto the top of her head before he had left to join the regiment. He had never seen her again. Despite all her fears she had been proud of him. He knew that now.
Now that it was too late. Never despair!
The image departed and Ney shook himself. It had been so vivid. So clear. As if she had been alive again, just for him. The feeling broiled him, warming the blood in his veins. I am still a man!
No-one can take that.
He rose, pacing the small cell, here crouching into a fencing position, there riposting an invisible opponent. He pictured all his false friends. Those who abandoned him so easily, and he slew them, just as he would slay de Carignac if they ever met again. Continuing the process he had come to Dupré, and was about to run him through, when before his eyes the stout hussar appeared.
Ney felt a roar of anger welling up inside him, but was deflated by the beaming smile which creased the ugly face.
“Ho! Rusty. Do you fight by yourself now?”
“There is nobody else, is there?” snarled Ney.
“There soon will be,” Dupré replied cryptically, his tone softened by Ney’s apparent aggression.
“What?”
“You are free. That’s why I’m here.”
“What do you mean ‘free’,” Ney asked, confused.
“Just that.” Dupré went on to describe the meeting in Gourgaud’s office, modestly reducing his own bold part. At the end, he was baffled to see Ney slump onto his bunk, shaking his head sadly.
“What is it, old man?” he asked.
Ney was unable to answer at first, trying to determine whether to reveal his guilty secret. Eventually he reached a decision. “I feel so guilty,” he confessed.
“But why?” asked Dupré, astonished. “Guilty for what?”
“For the last few days I have sat here and cursed all of you for abandoning me, and now I find that you have risked yourselves for me. How wrong can a man be?” He paused and then it all flooded out. “I had always believed that one should look after one’s own troubles, and damn the hindmost, yet now I find that I have been
mistaken.”
“It’s called growing up, Michel,” Dupré advised, sagely. “All children are selfish, and until now that is what you have been. Come, my friend, and let no more be said, eh?”
Ney looked at his friend, dumbfounded. This was a Dupré that he had never seen before. It was a look that the squat cavalryman had been getting used to. Always admired for his bulky strength, his intellect had been overshadowed, until it had been casually assumed that he lacked any worth considering. Yet now when the flint had
struck the frizzen it had been Auguste Dupré who had stepped forward, crossing the unmarked lines.
“Well, are you coming?”
“Of course!” laughed Ney, sweeping up from the bed, a renewed vitality surging through him.
“Excellent! Oh, and on your way out, mooch over and see the Master. I think he wants a word.”
Ney wrinkled his forehead questioningly, then followed Dupré from the cell.
Four days after Ney was released another meeting with the chasseur de Carignac was arranged. However this time it was held at first light, and the location was a rolling field surrounded by a glorious variety of trees, the mixture of which was only truly seen in France. At least so Ney thought, as he watched his breath turn to
gun-smoke in the still morning air.
Little of the grass was visible below his feet, being covered with a thick carpet of morning frost. It was a bitterly cold day, and Dupré - Ney’s second on this occasion - shivered beneath his horse cloak. None of the others had raised any complaint when Ney had named the boss-eyed corporal as his second, for Dupré’s standing had risen dramatically; the more so because he had done nothing to forward it himself.
Opposite them, perhaps ten yards away stood de Carignac and his second. Along with the same local doctor who seemed to turn out for all these events, they were the only five present. Ney looked at the ruddy-faced surgeon who made his own features look positively pale in comparison. He remembered his mother’s words: When you get to fifty it will look like you have been emptying your father’s barrels for half a lifetime. He pushed all such melancholy words aside as the two seconds
came together.
“Right,” said Dupré, taking charge of the situation. “No point discussing apologies now, eh? Best that we just sort out this business and bugger off inside.”
Ney smiled inwardly. Dupré might make a splendid officer, he decided.
De Carignac’s second grunted an affirmation and the two protagonists drew their sabres. None of the formalities were observed. Each man carried his own weapon, and dressed as suited him. De Carignac had been wearing the established green riding cape of the Chasseurs, and underneath he wore a thick stable jacket, trimmed in a feeble yellow braid. Ney for his part had arrived in Thierry’s silk shirt, with Dupré holding his dolman. The effect on de Carignac had been the desired one. The Chasseur seemed unnerved that his opponent could withstand such winter temperatures so easily.
“What, no big words this morning, Carignac?” asked Ney cheerfully. The unexpected tirade had surprised him as much as it had the others. It was most out of character.
“I don’t need words to prick you, shit face,” snarled the Chasseur boldly.
Ney laughed aloud. A guttural sound which sent shivers up Dupré’s spine. God knew what it was doing to de Carignac, who blanched until his face seemed the colour of the frosted ground. We have all changed, these last few days, thought Dupré. It did not sadden him. At last the revisions that were sweeping France had
reached Metz, and the effect was almost traumatic. Those who had taken power for granted suddenly found that character and ability now counted more than blood. Apart from the unfortunate letting of that substance it was not unpleasant.
“Let’s get on with it,” encouraged the doctor, shivering, “before we all die of pneumonia.”
De Carignac nodded, and Ney dipped his blade, indicating that the matter had come to hand.
He knew de Carignac’s style, and was unconcerned. The quick sway and swipe might work on old men like Jacqueminot, but Ney was vigorously healthy, and swift too.
The Chasseur suddenly lunged.
The unexpected attack nearly cost Ney his life. He cursed himself for letting his mind wander, and dropped into his fencing stance. It was not that of a trained fencer, yet nor was it the approach of a street bully. Rather Ney simply was a natural swordsman, and through months of practice he had effectively taught himself. De
Carignac by contrast was a trained fencer, skilled in the art. Unfortunately for him he was used to similarly tutored opponents.fencer, yet nor was it the approach of a street bully. Rather Ney simply was a natural swordsman, and through months of practice he had effectively taught himself. De Carignac by contrast was a trained fencer, skilled in the art. Unfortunately for him he was used to similarly tutored opponents.
The rend across the borrowed silk shirt scraped Ney’s stomach, but did not break the skin. He quickly looked down, calculating how many weeks wages he would have to put aside to pay for the damage.
Then without thinking he bellowed his war cry and attacked. Put simply, de Carignac was overwhelmed. Certainly he was able to block Ney’s attacks, but each time he thought that the auburn hussar must pause for breath, another attack materialised, and slowly the Chasseur realised that Ney owned a level of vitality that he had never seen before.
De Carignac began backing away, looking for an opportunity to counter attack, to use his fencing skill on the incessant fiend. Yet Ney gave no such chance, pursuing his opponent until at last de Carignac tired. Then Ney became more subtle, watching the sword-arm of his foe. For an idea had come to him. One that would leave Ney’s conscience untarnished yet would guarantee that the bully would never again strike terror into another.
He paused.
De Carignac sensed victory. At last he would use his skill. It must be his best. The subtle sway and then lunge for the throat. It must be a killing blow.
He swayed.
He fully expected Ney to follow the feint, but by the time he realised that it had not worked it was too late. The terror of the beaten bully showed in his eyes.
Ney had been waiting for the move. Everybody he had spoken to about the Chasseur had sworn that this was his favourite move. It’s no use, he had been warned, because you do not know what part is his target. That had not mattered to Ney, because he knew that the blow would never land. Had de Carignac been fresh, then perhaps it would have been different, but Ney had tired him, and the lunge was commensurately slower.
Ney followed the Chasseur’s swaying motion with one of his own, except that Ney shifted backwards, making a gap between them. Into this gap he launched his sabre, arcing it across the left of his body in a broad perpendicular sweep. The pointed edge caught de Carignac’s wrist below his own hilt when the point of his blade was a matter of inches from Ney’s throat. If the hussar had remained in place he would have been dead, but the extra space had won Ney the fight.
De Carignac screamed in agony as Ney’s blade severed the tendons in his right wrist, the sabre falling from the helpless hand. He looked in shock at the blood pouring out of the wound, collapsing onto his knees as he did so. He tried to move the nerveless fingers, and was appalled by the lack of feeling. He began to weep, the tears falling to mingle with the blood.
“Will you die now, Carignac?”
The wounded Chasseur looked up to see Ney’s bloodied blade hovering above his left ear.
“Where Jacqueminot got it, perhaps?” Ney asked. “Well?”
“Quarter!” panted de Carignac, all feeling of pride gone. “For God’s sake, quarter!”
Ney appeared to think for a moment, before nodding silently. Then he motioned for the surgeon before turning to Dupré. He winked, stretching out his left hand for his dolman.
“Reckon he won’t play the harp again,” said Dupré, impressed.
By Whim of Fate Book the First in the Ney Chronicles: An Historical Novel
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