By the Whim of Fate
Book the First
in the Ney Chronicles
An Historical Novel
Chapter 9
Copyright © Ben Longstreet, 2002
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By mid August Kléber had advanced on an
invested the town of Maestricht, instructing his partisan major to ever
extend his range of operations. Ney, however, was not entirely comfortable with his orders.
Merlin de Thionville, another of the growing number of People’s Representatives attached to
the army had introduced instructions that all émigré Royalist prisoners be forced to take the
Constitutional Oath under pain of death. He despised politicians and their cronies, although
since his rescue he had to admit that Gillet had become an altogether different person, but other
than that he was always uneasy in their presence.
To Ney it went against the grain to hunt other Frenchmen, certainly under circumstances which
were close to civil war.
“The guillotine is no place for any Frenchmen,” Ney had confided to Auguste
Dupré, whose assignment to the partisan cavalry he had recently been able to effect.
“No sir,” agreed Dupré.
Ney blushed, uncomfortable that his old friend had so easily adopted the habit of calling
him ‘sir’. He wondered what to do about it, and his brows furrowed in concentration. In many
ways life had been easier in the NCO’s’ Mess. Now, as an officer, untold complications arose,
and Ney felt a moment of self-doubt. Could he really handle all of this?
It was the evening of August 25th 1794, and Ney’s partisans, strengthened to fifty men
through allocations of various unattached troopers, were once more preparing for another
sortie into enemy territory. In itself, this held no foreboding for Ney. He lapped it up. The feeling
of command excited him; knowing that he was capable of dealing with any eventuality which
beset him. No, it was not the aspect of command which discomfited him. Rather, it was when he
was back in camp, around other, more accomplished officers, that Ney felt
uncomfortable. As yet he had been able to avoid any formal dinners, and he once more thanked
Kléber for giving him such an independent role. It meant that he was able to avoid the morass of cutlery at tables for which he had received no
training.
“Thinking back to the old days, sir?” asked Dupré.
Ney looked up at his friend, surprised. “Why, yes. How did you know?” Yet even in
asking, Ney remembered how Dupré had begun to excel with responsibility.
Dupré shrugged, his modesty matching his intellect. Instead of replying, he chuckled. “The
‘old days’. Less than two years. It is hard to believe, eh Rusty?”
Ney smiled secretly in the dull light which surrounded the small fire which the two of them
shared. Around them the ‘partisans’ snored comfortably, untroubled by the morrow’s raid and
confident in the ability of their young and dashing major. “Yes,” he said, at length. “A long way.”
“And a long way yet, old friend,” added Dupré.
“How is it that you are always so damned sure of everything?”
Dupré merely smiled conspiratorially, before bunking down in his cloak. It was a long time before Ney joined him.
Morning
The following morning Ney’s men broke camp before dawn had risen. They now looked
more like vagabonds than soldiers. Each man carried a dragoon musket or light cavalry carbine,
and they represented half-a-dozen regiments, although a good half were the survivors of the
original core of 7th Dragoons.
And they were all hard.
Ney still retained his hussar uniform, although the pelisse was safely wrapped in his
luggage and on his head he wore a fore-and-aft bicorne. Dupré, sitting next to him, had discarded
all but the hussar overalls and rode in a gorgeous cream silk shirt captured from an Austrian supply
train a week before.
Indeed, such attacks had become commonplace, for Ney’s activity had turned the
tables, forcing the Austrians to follow his initiatives, and leaving Kléber with a clear supply line.
This mission was Ney’s biggest yet. He was commanded to take his troopers behind the
enemy’s right flank and hit as many supply convoys as he could lay his hands on. It was an
order he relished, freeing him to go where he pleased and to get plenty of fighting.
Leaving the small town of Diest where his depot remained, Ney headed off towards Peer. He
had no real information about Austrian movements, but simply trusted to his luck. So far
it had not let him down. He did not confide this to Dupré, however. Somehow he sensed that his
friend would not approve of such unscientific methods.
Four hours later, and nearing his target, Ney rode at the head of his flying column enjoying the
early morning sun. The track he was using ran roughly parallel to the main road and he knew
that once behind enemy lines, sooner or later something of interest would pass. In the
meanwhile, the meadows swaying gaily in the gentle breeze and the sound of larks warbling
made for a pleasant ride. Indeed, were it not for the column of forty-odd men behind him, Ney
could have been relaxing like a gentleman of leisure.
Dupré riding hurriedly towards him from the direction of the advanced scouts brought Ney
back to reality. He scanned around himself quickly, seeing the troopers behind instinctively
check their equipment.
“Well, Auguste?” asked Ney, as Dupré reined in expertly.
“Sir. We are clearly already behind the enemy. Ahead on the Peer road is a gentle
convoy awaiting our attentions!”
Ney was as surprised as his lieutenant that they were already past the enemy. “We have
made good time.”
“Or they are advancing,” Dupré pointed out.
Wise Auguste, thought Ney. I shall have you always at my side, if God sees fit. “What escort?”
“Maybe a dozen dragoons. Nothing of significance.”
“Wagons?”
“Twenty or so. A good start.”
“A very good start. Go back to your flankers and get behind them. We’ll cut straight
across and warm them up.”
Dupré saw the excited flash in Ney’s eyes and the colour rise in his cheeks, and suppressed
a desire to reach out and embrace his friend. Yes. You were born for such as this. I too, but perhaps
I could live without it.
Waiting until Dupré had galloped out of sight, Ney turned in his saddle. “Sergeant! Up
here, if you please.”
“Coming, sir,” shouted the grizzled old dragoon who had been with the partisans from
the start. He trotted expectantly up to Ney’s side, equipment tied down and silent.
Ney wondered if his excitement had led him to shout too loudly, but he reasoned that the
convoy would be making more than enough noise of its own. “Sergeant, there is a large unguarded
Austrian convoy on the road ahead. Lieutenant Dupré will be behind them shortly. We will
charge down their throats. And get a few prisoners,” he added as an after-thought.
The sergeant nodded silently and turned to instruct the troopers. They all knew what to do.
Convoy raiding was not like formal action, with manoeuvre by company and squadron. This was a
breakneck attack and the Devil take the hindmost, and in Ney they had found its consummate exponent.
Judging that Dupré had had enough time, Ney signalled for his troopers to cut across the
dizzying yellow-topped fields towards the convoy. No doubt nearby some unfortunate
would be savagely cursing the vandals who so casually desecrated his summer’s work, but to
Ney it was just another piece of terrain that needed negotiating. Ahead were three small
copses of elms, and birches, the silver on their barks shining like dancing angels. Signalling to
his sergeant, a dozen men lead by a corporal galloped ahead to ensure that they held no unwanted denizens.
He watched his men spread out and advance, four on each copse, with the corporal
hanging back, monitoring all three groups. He tried to find fault, but could not. Two of each
group had drawn carbines, and two sabres. Ready for anything. He had trained them well.
But nothing came. Approaching the copses, the two carbine-armed troopers dismounted,
handing their horse to their partners, before disappearing into the woods. Ney waited
impatiently, at any moment expecting the distinctive crack of a weapon.
Still nothing.
First one, then another copse was given clear, yet from the third came nothing. Ney saw
the corporal shifting about tensely, and at length slowly edging towards the final, and largest copse.
Then suddenly from the copse hurried a young girl. She was no more than fifteen, and
clearly terrified. Furthermore, she was all but naked, he flimsy summer gown rent around her
legs. There were traces of blood on both her breasts and her face, and she was wailing
pitifully. Being entirely unexpected, Ney started involuntarily, blushing invisibly at his own
behaviour, before registering that this incident in itself was significant. Certainly for the poor girl.
For a moment longer he watched her running. Ney did not need the wily Dupré to tell him
what must have happened. Angrily he spurred his mount forward, silencing the rising merriment
behind him with a backwards look. Arriving near the girl he flung himself from the horse,
staggering on landing amongst the corn but not falling. She in turn was staggering into the
heightened field, the tears now clearly visible, streaming down her wild-eyed face.
Even as Ney reached out to grasp her, the girl fell before him, making a small circle in the
crops. He knelt down and clumsily tried to re-arrange her torn gown. It was no use. The
material had been sliced almost through at one point, and Ney guessed the edge that had caused
such an easy fissure. He instinctively unbuttoned his dolman and gently placed it about her naked
shoulders, ashamed of himself as he paused to look at her exposed breasts. The nipples were
prominent, and Ney thought that he could see signs of teeth marks in the soft flesh around them.
Quickly he did up the dolman as best he could, allowing the girl to fashion her gown into
some form of skirt. It occurred to him that since he had caught her she had neither struggled nor
uttered a sound, and now as he looked at her he could see that her eyes were once more calm.
He stood up, looking towards the copse, but as he went to step away the girl squeaked
piteously and latched on to his legs.
“Easy, little one,” Ney whispered gently. “I’ll let no-one hurt you now.”
The girl looked up, and Ney was reminded of a young deer that he had once held on his lap
whilst his brother had gutted it. The same huge, dark, trusting eyes. The thought scarred him, and
the look on his face caused the girl to squeal weakly once again.
He knelt back down, feeling a mixture of rage and pity. “One of my men did this to you,”
he stated, rather than asked.
She nodded, afraid that he would be more loyal to his men than to her welfare. It would not
be the first time.
Ney nodded, and although his face had become cold the girl was no longer afraid.
Brought up around five older brothers, she had long since learnt to recognise outraged and protective anger.
Such a look was on Ney’s face now. Helping the girl to her feet, they walked
slowly out of the battered field and across to
where Ney’s horse was now being held.
“Sergeant, see to this young lady,” Ney instructed coldly. “And if anything happens to her it’ll be
your chevrons. Understand?”
The old sergeant nodded grimly.
The girl suddenly jerked between the two soldiers, and Ney looked around to see the
approaching riders. He watched her eyes leading
one of the dragoons, and without the slightest
doubt he knew. He nodded at the sergeant, who
gently eased the girl away.
“The copses are clear, sir,” said the corporal, unsure of what to admit to knowing, nor
of his commander’s reaction. After all, rapes were common-place, and considered by many to be a
legitimate spoil of war.
“Have you nothing more to tell me, corporal?”
The growl in Ney’s voice told the corporal all that he needed to know. “Trooper Tranié has
interfered with a local girl, sir.”
“Interfered?” said Ney, his voice a snarl. He turned to look at Tranié, who sat nervously
alongside the corporal.
“I didn’t do nothing, sir” protested Tranié.
“Get off your horse when you speak to me!” snapped Ney, his cheeks now a furious red.
Tranié obeyed, but would step no closer to his officer.
“Come here.”
Tranié delayed as long as he possibly could, but he knew that he had no option. Slowly he stepped forward.
When he stood two paces away, Ney drew his sabre. “Take down your overalls,” he
instructed, brutally.
Tranié looked confused. “Sir?” “Take them down. I do not have rapists in my command. Is that clear.”
There was a murmur of understanding, for instinctively the circle of partisans knew that the
bleak warning was meant for them all. Tranié remained silent. Like the others, he was aware of
Ney’s reputation with a blade, and what, in this instance, he intended to do with it.
A musket shot brought them all to their senses.
“Christ! Dupré!” steamed Ney. He looked at Tranié. “If this all goes to shit because of you I
will cut your God-damned cock off!”
With that, Ney sprung onto his horse, and waving the gleaming sabre, shouted: “The
convoy! Follow me to the convoy!” With that he was gone, unconcerned as to who followed.
It was a good five minutes before he arrived at the head of the convoy, and from the activity it
was clear that a brisk, if sporadic, fire-fight was taking place towards the rear. The main road, if it
could be called that, for it was no more than a much widened pair of cart tracks, arced away out
of sight at the wheels of the seventh wagon. The road itself nested in a long and natural incline
bordered by weak and sprouting brush that might one day grow to become a hedge. Apart from a
few scattered copses and some waist high fields, there was nothing to cover an approach.
However just now the guards were busy at the rear, and the few drivers who had remained
with their vehicles were paying more attention to the scattered gunfire than the road ahead.
Thus despite nature to the contrary, Ney arrived unseen.
Galloping alongside the leading wagon, Ney knew that the driver must surely look around, but
so preoccupied was he that he had taken a slash across his spine without even hearing the swish of
steel. The blow was not fatal, though, and the wounded driver toppled forwards into his own
open-topped trailer, screaming in agony. The noise surprised Ney and alerted the other guards,
but by then he was halfway down the line of wagons, whooping like a mad animal and
scattering those on foot before him, knowing that he could leave the unarmed drivers to his men.
The blow that took him in the chest both surprised and unhorsed him, and for a moment
Ney thought that he had been shot, but no blood showed on Thierry’s old silk shirt. Instead,
standing way above him on the foot-plate of his wagon was one of the drivers that Ney had
ignored so contemptuously, brandishing a wooden pitchfork.
The driver yelled triumphantly, and inverted the pitchfork, clearly intending to let the spikes
finish what the handle had begun. Ney closed his eyes, awaiting the pain.
A great weight knocked the wind out of him, and Ney looked up into the bloody face of
the driver, now pressed against him. Where the man’s left eye had been was a wicked black hole,
and Ney could see the carbine ball lodged in the depths of the socket. Despite the nauseating
situation, Ney was momentarily enthralled by the driver’s appearance.
The spell was broken as strong hands hauled the corpse from Ney and in turn heaved
him to his feet.
“Thank God you live, sir” said the sergeant.
“Thanks to you?” asked Ney, quickly regaining his composure. He looked down at
Thierry’s old shirt.
The sergeant shook his head, pointing to the group of troopers who stood around them. “Looks
like you’ve been working in a slaughterhouse, sir.”
“Hell’s teeth!” shouted Dupré, forcing his way through the troopers.
Ney saw the anxiety on his friend’s face. “Don’t worry. Not mine.”
“We’ve taken the lot. Twenty-three wagons,” said Dupré.
“That was fast work,” Ney exclaimed.
“Hardly, sir. You’ve been unconscious for the best part of an hour. We couldn’t find you at
first, with this fat bastard on top of you.”
“Yes, he was something of a bruiser,” Ney agreed. “He carried a punch, too.”
The men smiled, relieved that their commander was back to his best.
“What are our losses?” Ney queried, eager now to get the captured convoy moved quickly.
“Corporal Ernouf is checking on that,” the sergeant said, keen to show that he was in control
of things, despite the distraction.
“Here he comes now,” one of the troopers informed them.
“What’s the count, Ernouf?” asked Dupré. Ernouf frowned solemnly. In his hands he
was holding Ney’s dolman. “Three dead, and two more with light cuts. Nothing serious, sir.”
Ney looked at his dolman. Then across at Dupré, whose erudite nod told him that the events
at the copse were familiar to him.
“Go on, Corporal Ernouf,” Dupré ordered, his eyes studying the dolman.
“Private Tranié is missing, sir.” Ernouf paused, not wanting to go on, but knowing that
he had no choice. He too now wished for the uncomplicated life of a trooper. “The girl is
dead.” He pushed the dolman towards Ney, who gently took it, examining the material as if it
might still possess some of the poor creature’s spirit.
“What… condition was she in?” Ney found himself asking. He had to know. He pictured
again the young breasts that had been streaked in their own blood. Maybe only two men had ever
looked upon them, and one of them had surely killed her. He knew that.
“I believe,” began the corporal, tentatively, “that Tranié went back to finish what he started,
and that he has now deserted.”
Ney looked at the sergeant. “Well, he was one of yours. What of him?”
“He always was a rough one,” the sergeant acknowledged. “It sounds possible, sir.”
“Damnation!” cursed Ney, turning away in anger. Quickly he recovered himself. “We need to
get these wagons on the move. Sergeant, send back four men, plus the two wounded, with the
convoy. Straight to Diest, you understand? That leaves us forty. We push on.” He turned to the
corporal, holding out the dolman. “Bury her in this. I will not wear it again.”
The sergeant nodded, grateful that in all the confusion Ney apparently did not intend to take
his stripes after all.
By Whim of Fate Book the First in the Ney Chronicles: An Historical Novel
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