By the Whim of Fate
Book the First
in the Ney Chronicles
An Historical Novel
Chapter 6
Copyright © Ben Longstreet, 2002
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Pierre Ney screwed his eyes, staring intently at the letter before him. The cooperage was lonely these days without his wife and family around him, and the occasional letters which he received from one or other of his sons provided him with a measure of warmth which he once had so easily taken for granted.
‘Father, since I wrote last the most momentous changes have occurred. I feel sure that what I will tell you will seem too great to be believed, but believe me when I say that all this is no word of a lie. I told you of my victory over de Carignac of the Chasseurs, and if you recall at the time I was, I must confess, certain that Colonel Gourgaud would ensure that my career was over. Yet imagine my surprise! Within days of the duel the colonel had vanished. Yes, vanished! I could hardly believe it myself. Nobody knows why. Rumour has it that he has deserted to the Austrians, with whom of course we are now at war. Yet at the time peace still existed. Perhaps he was unable to come to terms with the advent of the republic. I admit myself that I was unsettled by it at first, yet for me life has changed so much.
My old rank of brigadier is long behind me now. Indeed, father, the rapidity of change is one of the reasons why my letters are so rare.’
Pierre Ney paused, resting his tired eyes from the task of reading his son’s intelligent but ugly script. The depth of his son’s intellect had surprised the old cooper. Unquestionably Michel had received the best education that they could obtain for him, yet Pierre had never expected much. He had been too used to failure and setbacks, coupled with an acceptance of his lot which gave little room for ambition or self-improvement. He thought sadly of his beloved wife, briefly regretting that whilst she lived he had so casually neglected to tell her the things that he now felt so acutely since her death. It was the greatest lesson, and one that, god willing, he would pass on to his own children. It occurred to him that perhaps his own father should have done the same, but he knew that as a youngster he had rarely taken much notice of his elders. He sighed, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles before returning to the letter.
‘We were left without a commander for a short time before Colonel Lamarche was assigned to us. Feelings were confused in the regiment at his arrival. Nobody missed Colonel Gourgaud, save perhaps for a few of the officers who had been his cronies, but we were equally unsure of our new commander. Would he be handpicked by the terror - you have heard of course what has been taking place in Paris - or the committee of public safety, or whatever they now call themselves?
Luckily for us, and myself in particular, Colonel Lamarche has turned out to be an excellent officer, possessed of a degree of wit and style that is the epitome of a hussar officer. You may of course consider me biased when I tell you that one of the colonel’s first actions after settling in was to promote me to sergeant! But that is not all. Apparently it has become customary to award promotions on the anniversary of Bastille Day, and we have been woefully under-strength in most ranks. Anyway, within six months I had risen from corporal to sergeant major! Yes, it is true. In fact, I tell a lie!’
Pierre Ney paused again, wondering what his son had lied about. The thought worried him. As he rested his weary eyes he considered the possibilities, afraid to read on. He knew full well that whatever the political leanings of the Paris mob, nobody was truly safe. And Michel had never shown any inclination for politics. Had always despised politicians, in fact, encouraged by his father. It might even be possible that this very letter had been examined by the new powers-that-be.
He shrugged, shaking off the foolishness of old age. Why not just read what the boy has to say, you old fool? He looked down once more.
‘I was already sergeant major by Bastille Day. That came when we declared war on Austria. You remember I told you of my old comrade, Thierry? Well now he is an officer. Who would have believed it possible. Certainly not Thierry himself, for he told me so. It is all down to the revolution, father, even though I have had nothing to do with it myself. There is now an atmosphere of hope and excitement that I have never known before. A feeling that for all of us anything is possible, and that who we are or have been is of no consequence. Anyway, I am wandering from the subject. On Bastille Day Colonel Lamarche promoted me to adjutant. I know that this is not a glorious position, what with the amount of orderly-room work involved, but it was my own fault, for you see I had made myself somewhat indispensable through my deeds as a corporal. And it made me the senior NCO in the regiment, after all!’
Pierre paused again. His son the senior regimental sergeant. The pride swelled up within him. Jean had achieved little in the Saarlouis volunteers, and he had counted on nothing, yet he was unable to suppress the elation. Rising, he walked to his front door, the letter held at his side. He saw one of the local villagers passing.
“Hey Alphonse! My Michel is a sergeant-major!” He waved the letter, as if the showing provided adequate proof.
Alphonse smiled pleasantly, annoyed that his own troubles had been interrupted by the cooper. “well done,” he said, and waved an arm merrily as he carried on. “Huh!” Grunted Pierre, dissatisfied with his neighbour’s lack of enthusiasm. “see if I am so keen next time his water barrel leaks.” With that he returned to his lonely home to continue the letter which was assuming greater importance to him by the second.
‘But still that is not all, father. My daily contact with the colonel has brought about a friendship that I would not have thought possible with an officer. It seems that he is thoroughly proud of my reputation as a duellist - if you can call one fight a reputation - and he has on more than one occasion told me that it is fitting that a cavalryman, and particularly a hussar, has a ‘reputation’. I am beginning to understand what he means. Without doubt it is nice to be recognized from one’s achievements.
Still, enough of me bragging. I have seen Jean. Yes, it’s true! It must have been about the time that the Austrians passed through home. I hope that they caused you no damage. Anyway, Jean! We met in Dumouriez’s camp. He was with the 1st volunteers of the department, although they were all eager to get home when they heard about the invasion, especially having read all the proclamations about vengeance. That’s the trouble with so many bourbon royalists being in the enemy camp. It has made things like a civil war, or so I would imagine
one to be.
And I have fought in a real battle! Yes, I was at Valmy, although the veterans tell me that it was not a proper battle, just an extended cannonade. That oaf Brunswick couldn’t lead sheep to slaughter. Actually, that’s all he is good for! How can I say such a thing about an officer, even one of the enemy? Because I am one myself, father. An officer. A lieutenant. Promoted before Valmy!’
Pierre put the letter down, hardly able to breathe. His son was an officer! Now! Now you have a career, my son! Now you have a future! He remembered suddenly Michel telling his mother and father how he felt special. At the time Pierre had dismissed it in his own mind as the vanity of youth, yet now, could he be so sure? An officer!
He began reading again, the strain behind his eyes forgotten.
‘I am nearly up to date now. I have seen action at Jemappes and was with general Dumouriez when we took Brussels. It is a lovely city. Colonel Lamarche is a general now, and he has picked me as an aide-de camp. We have crossed swords with the enemy a dozen times, for the general likes to lead from the front, and that is a quality which I admire greatly.
You may have heard that things are not going as well as they could, and I must tell you that this is true. I do not need to tell an old veteran the importance of discretion, but keep this to your own company. Dumouriez has deserted. I do not know the details, but when republican commissioners arrived at his headquarters he had them arrested. God alone knows
what he had done to face a summons to the bar of the convention, but when he appealed to the troops he got little support. Most of us have benefited since the revolution, and nobody was about to support a counter-revolution.
So he deserted, taking most of the 1st hussars with him. Many have called him traitor, yet I cannot bring myself to. He is a Frenchman who has fought bravely for France, as did the 1st. The ins-and-outs of politics are too much for me; but I know that Dumouriez was not all bad.
Dampierre was put in command and he has renumbered the hussars, each regiment reducing its number by one, so now my old regiment are the fourth, whom I am back with. Dampierre was killed near Valenciennes and General Lamarche (the very same) had the command, albeit temporarily. He gave me a tremendous testimonial letter on my return, saying that I had ‘always displayed a discernment and a tactical insight that is seldom found’! Not bad, what? I said I am back with the fourth (how strange that feels) yet I have had another separation, for when General Colaud took command he asked for me as an aide. I did some small services for him, and in return he has promoted me to captain and offered me a return to the fourth. I have accepted, and as I finish writing this I am preparing to take command of my own company!
I know that this letter has been terribly overdue - years, in fact - and it is a disgraceful omission which I shall never make again. In future you shall hear from me every six months! Also, reading this back to myself I am too full of exclamations and excitement, yet I know that you will understand and forgive a young soldier his transgressions.
Please give my warmest regards to my sister and be assured that my mother’s image is never far from my thoughts. Your respectful son, Michel.’
Pierre pushed the letter aside quickly, but not from anger. Rather it was to protect the paper from the flow of tears that coursed down his face. “Oh Marguerite,” he said quietly to the old chair where she had sat for so many years. “How proud you would have been of our Michel. An officer. Who would have imagined? All this time I have questioned the Revolution, yet it has given him hope. Real hope. Not the pipe dreams that we shared. His sons will grow up the children of a gentleman.”
He stopped, wiping away the tears. Reaching onto the table which had always been between them he picked up the only lace handkerchief she had ever owned and kissed it tenderly.
By Whim of Fate Book the First in the Ney Chronicles: An Historical Novel
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