By the Whim of Fate
Book the First
in the Ney Chronicles
An Historical Novel
Chapter 7
Copyright © Ben Longstreet, 2002
 |
Captain Michel Ney rode at the head of his half-squadron. Behind him was the road to Mons. Ahead the retreating Austrian army. It was a scorching morning towards the end of July 1794, and Ney’s company had been posted to escort the new commander of the left wing of the Army of the Sambre and Meuse. Ney studied the form of General Jean-Baptiste Kléber riding a few yards ahead of him. He was in earnest conversation with Pajol, his senior aide-de-camp. He presented a short, full-faced figure who at 41 was already greying, except for the dark whiskers which vanished into his high stock. Kléber had a serious, scowling face, but nevertheless Ney liked him. He had found his new general forthright and open to suggestions, which certainly had not always been the case which some of his predecessors.
He was also a good commander. Easing his left hand onto his roan’s flank, Ney twisted around to examine the column of troopers behind him. The sixty riders who comprised the two troops were now all veterans, having seen action to one degree or another. Casualties to date had been light and replacements regular, and as such the spirit of the men was high. Ney picked out the squat figure of Auguste Dupré at the head of the second troop, and the lieutenant waved a hand merrily when he saw Ney looking. Ney waved cheerfully back, chuckling at the whim of fate that had made not only himself, but Thierry and Dupré officers as well. Surely Guidry too would have been an officer now, if only he had not ridden into a cannon ball at Fleurus. Ney’s face stiffened as he thought of the man who had been his best friend. ‘The best hussar of us all’, he had called Guidry, yet cannon balls appeared to be woefully indiscriminate. He sighed.
“All is not well with you, Citizen Captain?” Ney started, shocked to find that Kléber had reined in and joined him.
Kléber recognised the look of agitation and waved a hand pleasantly. “Fear not, captain. Nothing is amiss. Your picquets are still out and nothing to report.”
“I was thinking of a dead comrade, Citizen General,” Ney explained.
“Ah, yes…” replied Kléber, letting the words trail off. “I fear that all of us have learnt the less glorious side of war.”
“I did not mean that, Citizen General,” said Ney, quickly.
“I know, lad. I know,” said Kléber quietly. “And do stop calling me ‘citizen’. It’s alright occasionally or if the damned People’s Representative is about. Otherwise, a good old
fashioned ‘sir’ will do me quite well.”
“Yes sir,” said Ney, smiling.
“Anyway, I haven’t come back here just to be sociable. What do you make of the terrain ahead?”
Ney was once more taken aback. The question seemed so unlikely that he wondered if there was a hidden trap somewhere. After all, approaching hilly woodland, it would be
necessary to bring up some infantry in case a rearguard had been left in ambush, but any fool knew that, and Kléber was no fool.
“Well?” asked Kléber, assuming the delay to mean that yet another of his varied escort commanders was a thick-headed firebrand.
“You will have to bring up a battalion of infantry to clear out these woods, sir,” said Ney, deciding that to state the obvious was currently his best course.
“Very good,” said Kléber, impressed. “Who would you recommend?”
That was easy. “If there’s a demi-brigade of legere close by, I’d take them. Otherwise anything solid will do. After all, We’ll be here to protect them.”
Kléber laughed loudly, and for a minute Ney thought that he had said something wrong. Then Kléber said: “Do you know how many of my escort commanders would not even have considered an ambush?”
Ney was astonished. “None, I hope, sir.”
“Regrettably too many,” Kléber confirmed. “Tell me, at Fleurus when your brigade attacked the Austrian infantry, how did you think that went?”
Ney paused, knowing that to speak truthfully would be to criticise his brigade commander.
“Speak up man,” Kléber ordered. “You’ve shown a flash of sense. I want to know if you just pan-fire or if there’s any wadding down the barrel.”
“It is my opinion,” Ney emphasised, “that we were formed too closely, and subsequently were more susceptible to their artillery.” He thought bitterly of poor Guidry. “We should
have been adequately spaced.”
”Why do you suppose that did not happen?”
“I believe that the general wished us to look more impressive and thus overawe the enemy.”
“And was he right?”
“No sir. Not in this case.”
“Explain yourself,” encouraged Kléber, who unbeknown to Ney was thoroughly enjoying this discussion on his favourite subject.
Ney reached up and eased his mirliton away from his forehead, wiping the indented ring to clear away the sweat. “The infantry were wearing blue trousers, making them Hungarians, and as a rule they are the more experienced Austrian troops, what with always fighting the Turks and each other.”
“So?”
“So it was unlikely to worry them, sir. They’d have seen light cavalry before. After all, didn’t they invent hussars?”
“Splendid! Bravo!,” said Kléber, clapping with approval. “Splendid!” he said again, and spurring the flanks of his horse, was gone.
“What in God’s name was that all about?” Ney asked himself, looking perplexed at Kléber’s back. The general was back amongst his small staff, and Ney saw him lean over
towards Pajol. He shook his head in confusion. Generals! Who could understand them?
That night Ney sat amongst his troopers at their bivouac.. It was not the way of all officers, but many of the new breed who had risen through the ranks were unable to shake off the need to mix with their old comrades. Ney was one of these. Anyway, he reasoned, it was good for morale. Perhaps all officers should rise through the ranks, and so get a taste for what the average trooper feels and needs.
He had confided to Dupré about his odd conversation with Kléber, and the astute lieutenant had at once suggested that Kléber had been testing Ney.
“But why?” Ney had asked.
“So you want me to know everything, eh Rusty?” Dupré teased. “If that were so then it should be I leading this company and not you.”
“You’re cleverer than me anyway,” Ney confessed.
“But that has nothing to do with leading troops.
“Not in the conventional sense, anyway.”
Ney looked at Dupré, perplexed. He knew that he was not a stupid man, yet sometimes it seemed that his friend talked in riddles.
“Come now, Rusty,” Dupré urged. “I’m talking of soldiering. You are born to it. I am not. For sure I am more than adequate, but against you my friend I am a candle to a chandelier.” He paused, pleased with his own words and glad to see that at least this had not been wasted. Yes, Ney was no idiot, that was incontestable. They had joined the others, and listened to the same old stories, interspersed with a few new twists and the occasional fresh tale. It made for a pleasant evening and soon a few bottles had been opened.
“This escort duty has its rewards,” Dupré observed. “Remind me to tell Thierry what he missed.”
“Better than guard duty,” Ney agreed. He knew that had Kléber decided to stay close to the front things would have been decidedly different, but he had returned to his headquarters, and the hussars were granted a cosy evening. He watched the fire dancing brightly, savouring the aroma from the pipes and cheroots which the flames had brought to life.
A figure approached the fire, and Ney saw that it was Pajol, the general’s ADC.
“No, don’t get up,” he said lightly, when nobody attempted to. “Captain Ney, a word please.” A chorus of ‘oohs!’ went up from amongst the troopers, intimating the feel of a schoolboy called before the head. It was childish, but amongst men at war it was the childish things which eased the tension.
“Certainly, Citizen Captain,” said Ney formally, pushing himself up and casually brushing straw from his uniform.
The two men walked away from the fire and out of earshot.
“The general has asked me to convey a message to you,” said Pajol, pausing to emphasise the importance of such a brief.
Ney looked about him, instinctively checking to see if they were being overheard. Despite the dull cacophony which accompanied any camp site, it was clear that they were alone. The gesture satisfied Pajol, and he continued. “The general invites you to join his staff,” he said curtly.
Ney looked hard at him, trying to detect any feeling of animosity, and he thought that he saw a flicker of resentment in Pajol’s eyes. He recollected what little he knew of the man. From Besançon. A tough lot. Rumour had it that Pajol had been wounded leading infantry attacks a number of times. Perhaps he just did not like cavalrymen. It was a common enough attitude in the infantry. The horsemen, and particularly the hussars, who liked to think of themselves as the pick of the cavalry, tended to behave a trifle arrogantly and remain
aloof from the mass of troops.
“Well, citizen?” asked Pajol.
Ney frowned, wondering how his explanation would be elucidated. “Please tell the Citizen General that much as I am honoured by his offer, I am only just returned to my own regiment, and to leave again so soon would, I feel, smack of ingratitude, even disloyalty.” He ended, spreading his hands in a gesture of apology. Pajol was, temporarily at least, thrown off balance. He stared at the earnest red-haired hussar, looking to see if he was playing a jest. Surely no-one turned down approaches from generals? “I see that you are uncertain, Citizen Captain,” said Ney.
Pajol stepped closer to Ney, taking him by the arm, as if the ground itself was unworthy to overhear them. “I am only uncertain,” began Pajol, “that I have heard you correctly. You are refusing General Kléber’s posting?”
“I regret that I feel that I must,” Ney insisted. He was beginning to get irritated with Pajol’s scepticism and he could feel the blood rushing to his already ruddy features. Struggle as he might he could rarely hold back his quick temper for long.
“But my dear Ney,” said Pajol, not alerted by the visible warning signs, and tugging the hussar’s sleeve a fraction too harshly, “you are damaging your own career, just by refusing. Surely you must know that?”
“Citizen Pajol,” growled Ney, shrugging off the other’s grasp and whirling back fiercely on him. “I need no advice from you about my career. Further, be aware that my own honour means far more to me than any rank or advancement. I have learnt that without honour a man is nothing, and I will not stain my own for any reason.”
“But this is hardly a stain on your honour!” protested Pajol, his voice raised, although in amazement rather than anger. He had at last seen the fiery warning in Ney’s cheeks and caught the glint of menace in the grey-blue eyes.
“With respect, citizen,” said Ney, feeling no respect at all, “It is I who makes such decisions about my honour. When I first left this regiment the report my comrades gave me was excellent, and I swore then that should I return, I would do my best to live up to their praise. Now, I have divulged quite enough to you. Take yourself to General Kléber and present my deepest apologies, and my gratitude for his consideration. Good night.”
With that he turned on his heel and strode off towards the fires of his troopers, crushing bracken and discarded fire wood under his determined stride, and leaving a much confused Pajol wondering just what he would say to his general.
“He said what!” roared Kléber, reducing the large bell tent which served as his field headquarters to instant silence. The half-dozen officers, and a single man in civilian clothes who occupied the massive marquee looked around at the commander. It was not unusual for him to erupt in anger, but gossip was always a valuable commodity which might gain a man a place at a select table, and so was not to be missed. The officers thus had countenances of mixed interest and voracity. Only the civilian looked on with hooded eyes that hinted at amusement. He stood alone and clearly was unpopular with the soldiers.
“He has refused, sir,” Pajol confirmed.
“Citizen General,” interjected the civilian, as if chiding a child for not remembering its lessons.
“He has refused, Citizen General,” repeated the ADC, clearly uncomfortable with the new titles dictated by the Republicans in Paris.
“What did you tell him?” asked Kléber, patiently, recovering his calm. He had no desire to show their new arrival anything more than he had to. That new arrival looked on with mock disinterest, apparently tinkering with his brown double-breasted jacket. In fact he was watching all of the soldiers like a hawk, missing nothing. It would have to go in his reports, after all.
“Just what you instructed, sir,” said Pajol, looking defiantly over at the civilian. “That he was to join your staff.”
“And you did not say why?” asked Kléber, a hint of a groan in his voice.
“That is not my place sir.”
“Very commendable, Citizen Pajol,” teased the civilian.
“I will thank you, Citizen Gillet, to hold your tongue whilst I am conducting military business. You are a representative; no more.”
Gillet nodded with a mock bow, but his eyes said that he would add this insult to any future ones for when a day of reckoning came.
Kléber, dismissing the annoying Representative of the People from his thoughts, continued: “Go back at once and get Ney over here. At once!” Before he had finished repeating the order, Pajol was out of the tent and heading back to the hussars’ lines. He was not happy. Damned if he could understand what made Ney so special. There was nothing to being a cavalryman, after all. Any fool could ride. Pajol felt the pain of embarrassment running through him, and he calculated how many of his comrades had been privy to his rebuke. In truth he had deliberately fudged over the general’s offer. It was far more than a simple staff posting, but Pajol harboured hopes of being a horseman himself, and he hoped that with Ney’s refusal, Kléber might look to him. Now it was not to be. By the time these thought had passed through his head, Pajol was back at the picket line of the hussars, and he enviously watched as two hussar corporals fenced lightly whilst keeping a weather eye on the row of tethered animals. Anyone can ride!
“Are you back, Pajol?” Ney asked, looking around from the circle of figures lounging about on the straw which circled the gentle blaze. “Come to join the hussars?”
The innocent jibe bit deep into Pajol, and he involuntarily straightened his blue ADC’s jacket, silently cursing himself for the action, and imagining the grinning faces before him. Brazening it out, he said: “General Kléber orders you to his tent at once.” With that he was gone.
“Old Iron Guts wants you, eh?” teased Dupré, waving a flask of brandy solicitously across the fire.
“I’d better be off,” Ney confirmed. “See to the sentries, Auguste.”
“But we are behind the lines,” Dupré protested, not really meaning it, but interested in Ney’s reaction.
“Good habits are easily kept,” said Ney, departing. Dupré was vaguely disappointed. He liked Ney greatly, but could not help thinking that his captain was a bit peculiar. Sometimes a dashing rogue, and yet at others a sour old goat. Still, at least there was rarely a dull moment…
Ney approached Kléber’s tent, suddenly aware that in his hurry he was improperly dressed. He considered going back for his dolman, but the delay would probably annoy the
punctilious Kléber even more than he seemingly was already. No, he would stay in the proud silk shirt with the sewn up rend across the waist which Thierry had gifted him after the second duel. It had been good enough then, and it would be now. The two grenadiers guarding the tent eased casually to attention as Ney approached. It was not intended to be, nor
was it disrespectful. It was the style of the new revolutionary French army. Almost a rebellion against the iron discipline of the old regime. Instead a casual professionalism imbued these
soldiers, and Ney appreciated it.
“Evening, boys!” he said merrily, apparently without a care in the world.
Neither of the guards spoke but Ney clearly saw both moustaches rising slightly, and the sight buoyed him. These were his lads, he decided, regardless of whether they rode or walked. This sudden new perception warmed him as if he were still by the fire. He felt an affection for them all, and the satisfaction he had felt since he had dedicated his life alongside
theirs never ceased to cheer him. One of the grenadiers banged his musket butt on the ground, striking a rock which had been placed for that purpose. Ney was about to inform the sentry of his name when the guard shouted, “Citizen Captain Ney, to see the general!”
Ney was surprised, receiving a cheeky wink from the grenadier in reply. He had thought that outside the regiment he was unknown.
“Enter!” ordered a voice from inside. Kléber’s. Not happy. Not at all.
Ney entered, ducking through the canvass flap with as much dignity as he could muster. He saw Kléber sitting at a folding wooden desk, writing accoutrements and a small map littering the confined surface. Only one other man was in the room, a civilian whom Ney did not know. Of Pajol there was no sign. He strode up towards the desk and saluted smartly.
Kléber, who had been watching his approach, returned a lazy gesture which passed for an address and absent-mindedly took the small map in his hands. Both men looked around as the civilian chuckled audibly.
“This is Citizen Gillet, our new Representative of the People.” He turned to Gillet, his face cold. “Citizen Gillet - Captain Ney.”
“Citizen Ney,” Gillet nodded.
“Citizen” Ney replied, without warmth..
“Good, perhaps if we are all now friends I can get on.” Kléber brandished the map. “Do you know what this is?”
Not being that way inclined, Ney did not see the obvious joke. To play it on one of the Republic’s best commanders would not have been advisable in any case. Instead he approached Kléber, and studied the map across the table. It was difficult to read upside down but Ney quickly recognised a poor outline of the Flemish countryside.
Kléber grunted in sharp annoyance, and briskly inverted the map, thrusting it at Ney.
“It’s the local countryside, for about fifty miles about,” said Ney, at once.
Suddenly Kléber’s mood changed, and he was clapping once more as he had on the road earlier. “Excellent!” he roared.
Gillet shook his head silently. What fools soldiers were. It was lucky that the People had rapidly realised that they all bore watching. Too much power corrupted. He was, however, intrigued by this scruffily dressed cavalryman, and he looked at Ney to see what his response would be.
“It’s a poor map, sir,” he said. “Do we not have better?”
“Yes my boy,” Kléber chuckled, “we do. But I wanted you to see that one.” Ney was perplexed, although he realised that it must be another of the general’s tests. Had he then passed?
“You turned down my posting. Why?” Ney proceeded to briefly explain his own code of honour. It left Gillet amused and Kléber impressed, yet the former was somehow not as disdainful as he had been about some of the others he had seen. This Ney bore more considered watching.
“Pajol was not clear. I do not want, nor do I need another ADC.”
Ney frowned, wondering then what the general wanted him for. He waited, knowing that the answer would come in due course. He also had time to ponder on why Gillet remained privy to the conversation, and exactly what power the man held.
“Do you know what a partisan is?” asked Kléber, at length.
“Local civilian saboteurs and troublemakers,” Ney replied, his tone clearly edged with contempt.
“Good. At least you do not ride with your head up your horse’s arse,” said Kléber, introducing a touch of military crudity in an attempt to upset Gillet. It had no apparent effect. “We are having considerable trouble with the local Flemish peasantry. The buggers are being stirred up by roving Austrian cavalry to attack our supply columns and generally make life hell for us. Between them they are tying up a quarter of my troops in escort and guard duties. Just to keep open our lines of communication. It has to stop.”
Kléber paused, allowing time for his lecture to sink in, yet even he was surprised by the speed of Ney’s understanding. “You need someone to outwit the Austrians at their
own game, sir.”
Kléber nodded, suppressing his delight. “Yes. Exactly.”
“But there are plenty of good cavalry generals under your command, sir. Any of them could sort this out.”
“Firstly, I need my generals precisely where they are, and secondly the work I have in mind does not entail whole brigades. I want to hit the enemy hard. I want my own partisans and I want you to lead them. You will be completely independent. And this is not an offer. It is an order. I am not in the habit of being hung out to dry by junior officers. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir,” said Ney flatly, his mind trying to comprehend the degree of independence he had just been forgotten.
“Come here in the morning and I’ll find some troops for you. In the meantime off you go to your camp and say your goodbyes. You won’t be going back.” The finality of those last words hit Ney hard. He did not precisely know what the general meant, yet he knew that no harm was intended. He saluted and spun on his heel. The clatter of muskets outside announced his departure.
“Are you certain of your choice?” asked Gillet quietly. It was no intention of his to ever be overheard and he spoke accordingly. It made his voice sound like a menacing whisper, but the effect only added to Gillet’s satisfaction.
“Never more so,” said Kléber, surprised that he was not angered by Gillet’s effrontery. He wanted to confide in his new protégé to somebody. “That young man has qualities I have rarely seen in a soldier.”
“But my understanding was that you had only met him today.”
“Ah-ha!” said Kléber, pleased to have at least one secret from the Representative of the People. “Every report submitted on him has been excellent, and most of all, his men love him. You see. It is not only you who reads communications.”
Gillet grunted, the sound intimating that too much adoration was something which concerned him. But he said nothing.
“Today I just tested him out for myself. And he passed. Mark my words, Gillet. That boy will go far; if he lives.”
If he lives, thought Gillet. It was the most unpleasant possibility amongst a list of many which to Gillet made the prospect of an army career so unappealing. He was grateful
that he would never find himself amidst the carnage of a battlefield. For him, the nuances and scheming which embodied his own line of work were far more appealing.
By Whim of Fate Book the First in the Ney Chronicles: An Historical Novel
|
