By the Whim of Fate
Book the First
in the Ney Chronicles
An Historical Novel
Chapter 8
Copyright © Ben Longstreet, 2002
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It was the 30th of July. Ney, riding in a broad straw hat because of the intense mid-day sun, reined in his mount and reached for his water bottle. The liquid in the wicker-covered flask was already warm, but it was better than nothing. Behind him 28
men of the 7th Dragoons imitated his actions, grateful at the wisdom shown by their commander.
Ney sensed the presence of movement at his side and glanced at the dragoons' sergeant, casually nodding his permission to speak.
"Scouts are coming back, sit" said the moustached veteran, pushing the distinctive brass helmet back from his head.
Ney, the only member of the unit not clad in dragoon green, preferring his old hussar uniform, nodded. "Thank you, sergeant. See that the horses are all sound."
The sergeant knew better than to take his time, and was gone, shouting out a variety of quick-fire instructions which brought a curt nod of approval from Ney. The sound of distant, scattered musketry instantly stole his attention. Ney could now discern that the outriders were moving with a rapid urgency which had been disguised by the distance. He nudged his horse, heading out to meet them.
"What's happening?" Ney shouted as soon as his scouts were in range.
He was obliged to wait a number of seconds as the breathless men pulled up and saluted. Ney brushed the gestures aside and repeated his question.
"The supply column sir. It's under attack by Austrian cavalry."
"How far?" Ney asked, gauging the sounds of gunfire for himself. Two miles?
"About two miles, sir. I couldn't say how many there are, sir, but certainly lots."
Ney was unconcerned at numbers. Suppressing a glint of satisfaction at accurately appraising the distance, he wheeled around and galloped back to his troop. These cold professionals, already coining to know their new commander, had put away their bottles and begun tightening equipment.
Ney saw and was pleased. "AdjutantGeneral Bouquet's supply column is under attack, and we're going to save him," he said, matter-of-factly. He looked at the tired, foam flecked horses. "At the trot!" he ordered, and was gone, leaving them to follow as best they could. Had any been in a position to see, they would have observed a face that had coloured almost to the same shade as the auburn hair which topped it, and a savage glint in the eyes which bordered on the fanatical.
Citizen Gillet, Representative of the People had never been so scared. How he had cursed his own foolishness! He had presumed that travelling in the rear with Adjutant-General Bouquet's supply column would be the safest place to be, and at first that was how it had appeared. Sitting atop the second wagon in the long column, Gillet had stretched out and allowed his mind free rein. He prided himself on his excessive intellect, and it pleased him to let it run free, sometimes showering him with a multitude of divergent thoughts from which to choose. He knew it to be a rare luxury which marked him from the common man.
And so it had been. With his hat tipped over his eyes, and his jacket slung across his lap, Gillet had begun to realise that all the harshness of war which the soldiers continually droned on about was nothing of the sort. In fact on a nice day it was rather pleasant.
The arrival of the Blankenstein Hussars did a great deal to alter his opinion.
Until a few days ago they had been having the most tremendous time, riding about behind the French lines with the kind of gay abandon with which hussars should ride. Stirring up trouble and killing Frenchmen. Then a patrol failed to return, and the patrol sent out to find it came back at half strength, having been ambushed by a motley baDd of French cavalry that might once have been snappily dressed dragoons. Since then the Blankensteins had had two more encounters with the mysterious French cavalry, and neither had been pleasant. Armed with the short dragoon musket, these Frenchmen had been more than willing to carry out nasty dismounted ambushes, and the hussars had quickly developed a healthy respect for their new opponents with which came a renewed caution.
Their commander had therefore been elated to come across the French supply column. Fifty or more carts guarded by a handful of Chasseurs and infantry. He had licked his lips and ordered a full scale assault with all 200 of his available men.
They had ridden down onto the column like a wave from the Mediterranean, clad as they were all in light blue.
The sound of gunfire had nearly caused Citizen Gillet to fall from his perch, and indeed his awry hat had tumbled to the ground. Without thinking, Gillet hopped from the baited wagon to retrieve it, and at that moment the gunfire registered for what it was. He saw horsemen everywhere. It must have been the whole Austrian army. The squadron of French Chasseurs were scattered in a few minutes, and the motley infantry guard took up positions wherever they could, shooting at anything mounted, be he friend or foe.
Gillet saw Bouquet, the portly AdjutantGeneral surrounded by hussars, and despite defending himself gallantly with his short blade it was clear that he had sustained a number of wounds.
However, too much was going on for Gillet to be able to remain a casual observer. The sound of galloping hooves caught the Representative's attention, and he turned to see two hussars bearing down on him. He tried to run, wanted
desperately to move his legs, but found to his dismay that he was frozen to the spot. They were coming right at him, the black and yellow plumes of their shakos buzzing about like angry bees and he began to pick out the detail on their intricately woven pelisses.
A pistol went off from above Gillet, and one of the hussars fell forward across his horse's neck, a patch of scarlet showing clearly across the light blue of his chest. A roar of anger came from the other rider, who angled slightly from Gillet and headed for the wagon next to him.
Gillet could hear the driver feverishly reloading his pistol, but the Representative knew that it would be in vain. He was buffeted aside by the hussar's horse, and he fell roughly to the ground. With an unerring instinct for survival he decided that feigning death would be the wisest course, and that here was as good an opportunity as any. He shut his eyes and waited.
A thump alongside him made Gillet involuntarily open his eyes. It was the wagon driver. The man was staring at him wildly, clearly even more terrified than he himself was.
"Go away, you fool, or you'll get us both killed!" Gillet hissed, alarmed that this idiot would ruin everything, and at any moment expecting the imagined bite of an Austrian sabre into his body. He was about to say more when the severed head's eyes misted over in death, and Gillet realised with what he had been conversing. The bile rose up in his throat, threatening to spew out in a damning torrent, but with a tremendous effort he kept his mouth shut, grimacing as little as possible as he swallowed it back down.
He shut his eyes again, and wished that he had the courage to turn away from the hideous head. He felt a warm, wet sensation in his breeches.
Riding to the crest of the low hill which covered the scene of the engagement, Ney took in the landscape. The scattered convoy was wide open, and in a matter of moments would be taken. A few Austrian Hussars were already breaking off from their victory over the Chasseurs and Ney knew that as soon as the main body reformed they would easily crush all resistance. Looking around him, he waved his men up to form a rough line around him.
"We're going into the back of the Blankensteins," he said, directing their attention with his sword towards the already familiar light blue enemy. "It may look bad but we will catch them from behind. Look for officers and trumpeters, and don't stop to waste blows. Hit as much and as often as you can."
He looked around, the red hair appearing to dance like flames around his features, the straw hat long gone. The long heavy cavalry blades scraped from scabbards and the French partisandragoons knew that they would follow this incandescent fire-eater to hell itself.
Rising up on his stirrups, Ney waved his own curved hussar blade above his tousled mane. "Are you with me?" he shouted, his voice a manic laugh. "Then charge!"
Ney's men struck the rear of the Austrian hussars without warning, for the direction had been that from which they themselves had come, and thus was considered safe. Ney, riding at the head of his men, was first in. Using the sabre, he did not waste time with the point, but rather slashed out to left and right at the shapes of his enemy.
The first two arcs each took an Austrian from his saddle, and Ney pushed on into the disordered mass, indifferent as to whether his victims still lived. He instinctively knew that the secret to this unlikely battle was to make as many Austrians hors de combat as soon as possible.
Citizen Gillet had seen it all. unable to remain alongside the decapitated head, he had staggered to his feet, convinced that his own end was but a few seconds away. He had seen the green-clad riders stream down the gentle slope and had at first assumed that they were Austrian reinforcements, come to assure his doom. Strangely though, the bareheaded figure at the front had looked vaguely familiar, and as the rider raised his sword into the air, Gillet recognised Michel Ney.
His heart nearly leapt from his body. Ney had come to rescue him! Then he chilled. The French horsemen were woefully few in numbers, and they would go the same way as the escort.
You fool! Why did Ney not have more men with him? He rushed to the side of the wagon, not noticing that he had kicked the driver's head underneath it as he moved.
Ney himself pressed through the throng of Austrians. Swords cut everywhere, yet it seemed he bore a charmed life. He looked left into a moustached, grimacing face, and pushed his sabre between the two rows of snarling teeth, drenching them in their own blood, which in turn spurted out onto his own uniform. The hussar bit into the blade and for a moment or two it was lodged, and Ney considered letting it go. Then another sword cut across his body, cleaving away a whole row of lace from his dolman, and that shock gave him the extra strength to pull his sabre free, a further gush of teeth and blood coming with it and spewing over him.
Swinging the blade around, Ney was in time to catch a second cut from the hussar to his right, and when he looked at his new foe, the man was already dead, the dragoon sergeant appearing behind him, whilst the point of his sword appeared to the hussars front, driving a path through his stomach which the eviscerated intestines eagerly followed.
Ney bellowed his gratitude and pressed on. Suddenly he was through and at the leading wagon. Around him the Blankenstein hussars fled, and before him a heavily bleeding Bouquet lay propped against a wagon wheel.
"Chase them off!" Ney ordered to his sergeant, as he himself dismounted to look at Bouquet. The stout supply officer managed a grin.
"What a pleasant surprise to see you, young man," he grunted through red spittle.
"I'll get the surgeon, sir," Ney offered.
"Yes, yes, whatever you think best," said Bouquet gamely, before he passed out.
"Get the surgeon!" hollered Ney, and his voice brought an immediate response despite the stunned state of the convoy.
"You, look after the general," Ney ordered, to a shaken looking infantryman, as he himself straightened to take stock of the damage.
He had not walked far when a figure he recognised came towards him. It was the People's Representative, Citizen Gillet. He was minus coat and hat and looked most unsteady on his feet. Despite his natural dislike of the man Ney impulsively reached out to a steadying hand.
"Thank you Captain Ney," said Gillet, completely forgetting the proper Republican form of address.
"Steady yourself, Gillet," Ney said firmly. "The worst is over." Indeed, looking around Ney realised that it was all over. Thoroughly broken, the Austrian hussars raced away across the hills, a few parting shots from the dragoons adding touches of smoke which looked like willo'-the wisps dancing above the impromptu battlefield.
Gillet began to pull himself together. "Citizen Ney," he began. "You have done myself and France a great personal service, and let it never be said that Gillet is not a man who pays his debts. I am not without influence and I promise you that my gratitude can be substantial. With that he turned and vomited down his shirt, leaving a dumbfounded Ney to chuckle as quietly as he could manage.
Ney strode into General Kleber's tent the evening of the day following the fight at the convoy, uncertain as to why he had been summoned. One thing was for certain. It would be nothing bad. Ney had the self-confidence to know when he had done well, and more importantly to lack the self-doubt which could haunt an otherwise capable man.
Still, he had to admit that he was intrigued.
The same two grenadiers guarded the entrance to the marquee, but their only signal of his arrival was the butt of the musket against the ever-present rock, and a gesture to enter without further announcement.
Kleber was alone, relaxing with a glass of cognac. He appeared well satisfied, and looked up as he heard the tent flap open. "Ah, Ney. Well come in man. Don't stand on ceremony. Pull up a stool."
Ney stepped forward, casually saluting as he confirmed that the tent had no other occupants.
Kleber recognized the look. "Citizen Gillet cannot be with us tonight," he stated. "However he has left this for you." Kleber pointed to a letter on his desk.
Ney understood that he was to take and read the letter, and he complied wondering why Gillet should write to him, and then leave the letter with his commander.
He looked at the neatly written document:
In consequence of the report made to him of the military talents and patriotism of citizen Ney, captain in the 4th regiment of hussars, hereby appoints the said citizen Ney to hold the rank of staffmajor, the duties of which grade he is already performing under general Kleber, commanding the left wing of the army.'
August 1st, 1794. Gillet. Ney looked up, forcing his face to remain straight, yet Kleber could clearly see the exultant pride burning in his grey-blue eyes.
"Of course this order has been confirmed by myself," grunted Kleber, his own eyes betraying a certain satisfaction.
"Thank you, sir," said Ney.
"No need to thank me, boy. This is on merit. You deserve it. Now clear your arse out and scour those Austrian bastards out of my damned way."
By Whim of Fate Book the First in the Ney Chronicles: An Historical Novel
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