Searchers in Winter, page 2
He was jarred from his waking vision by the sound of one of the Mameluke’s comrades shouting in their foreign tongue. “Anyhow,” he said, clearing his throat and turning to the man beside him, “once we’ve joined with Sergeant-major Mazzarello and the rest of the squadron we will continue toward Görlitz. Colonel Menard informs me we’re not likely to encounter the enemy along the road. Nevertheless, this will be a good opportunity for us both to assess our men outside the comfort of camp.”
“I’ve already taken a look at our troopers,” Moreau replied as he fit a pair of riding gloves on each hand, spitting into one and rubbing them together. “They ride and drill to satisfaction, but I’ve not yet seen them in contact with the enemy. I’m sure that will change soon.”
André nodded, fitting the saddle onto a dark, bay-colored gelding that whinnied loudly in greeting when Major Moreau led his gray mare forward. Both men mounted, Moreau waiting silently as André stroked his animal’s neck, trying to calm its excitement.
“Not accustomed to horses, sir?” Moreau asked, with a barely perceptible grin. “I was told that you were originally from the infantry.”
“You heard correctly,” André replied flatly. “As a junior officer I was infantry, but since that time I’ve ridden my fair share. Now, when we clear that copse,” he gestured east, “we’ll ride double-file until we reach Görlitz. When we get there I’ll find the burgher who will, I’m told, inform us where we can find the carts that Colonel Menard needs. Any questions?”
“No sir.”
“Very good.” André motioned to the squadron trumpeter to sound the call to arms.
Several minutes later the squadron rode out from camp, down a gentle-sloping hill onto the road east, which led to the lands where the people spoke Polish. For now, Lieutenant-Colonel Valiere and Major Moreau were only riding to the town of Görlitz to requisition several carts and wagons for the Grand Armée.
Or so they believed.
Riding in silence for over an hour the squadron passed through small hamlets and green thickets speckled with the first yellows and reds of autumn. Sergeant-major Mazzarello joined the squadron on the road, bringing with him the rest of the troopers falling under André’s command. All told, they numbered just under three hundred men. The Coriscan veteran shook André’s hand with a firm grip that attested to his broad shoulders and muscular neck.
Farmers reaping the harvest looked up from their fields at the passing horsemen, some no doubt wondering what the increasing number of French cavalry patrols might mean for the future of their land and safety of their families. Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte’s march across the German states had been so rapid, many of the locals did not know whose side they were expected to support or oppose. Most were hardly concerned with the war as long as it did not disturb their peaceful existence. Sergeant-major Mazzarello ensured that no undue resentment was stirred up by rude words or gestures directed at the locals, and his troopers wisely chose not to tempt his Corsican temper by disobeying him.
The squadron entered the city some hours later as the bells of the Holy Sepulchre sounded the faithful to midafternoon prayer. Their horses’ shoes sent sparks along the cobblestones as they rode beneath the large baroque buildings, the largest being the turret of the Reichenbach Tower that loomed imperiously over the city’s narrow streets.
The meeting with the city’s burghers lasted a little over an hour. They met privately with André in the town hall, where he delivered a fee allocated to him by Colonel Menard. Although less than they had hoped for, the occupants begrudgingly accepted the payment in exchange for twenty of their “most spirited” horses along with eight wagons, which was less than André had hoped for. All told it was not a bad morning of work, André mused, as he mounted his gelding in the city’s square. Major Moreau and Sergeant-major Mazzarello sat on either side of him, ready to depart.
He glanced once more at the houses and spires on either side of the Untermarkt square, regretting being unable to explore more of the town. “The colonel is not likely to be pleased by a haul of only eight wagons,” he said, tucking his boots into the stirrups and signaling the trumpeter to announce their departure. “But it’s something. And the mounts will be a fine addition.”
“Have they said anything about the enemy, sir?” Sergeant-major Mazzarello asked. “Some of the locals we spoke to heard talk of Prussian scouts being spotted across the Oder. Others said they’d seen French.”
“That river you see there, sergeant-major, is the Neisse,” André replied, motioning to the murky water reflecting the bright afternoon sun in wavy glimmers. “To your question—no, the gentlemen of this town did not seem preoccupied with Prussian scouts. And though I don’t suspect today will be the day they pay us a visit, we will ride at the battle-ready.”
“Sir, I would recommend sending an advance party before the squadron leaves the cover of the town,” Moreau offered.
André shook his head. “We have no riders to spare.”
Moreau lifted his chin. “It would only require a team of three or four men, sir, the risk of not—”
“The colonel wishes us back before nightfall, major,” André cut in curtly. “Hitching our additional horses to the wagons and providing a guard for their protection will require thirty troopers. I will not risk the remainder becoming strung out or separated. We will stay together and move as quickly as we can.”
Moreau looked at the sergeant-major, twisting the reins in his left hand. “Very well, sir,” he replied at last, without turning his head.
Riding in silence, the squadron passed out of the town along a dirt track that led back into the wooded hills of the Saxon countryside. The orange and yellow leaves shone brilliantly in the afternoon autumn sun. A dog barked nearby, though none of the farmers they had passed that morning were to be seen. André gazed through the tree line, scanning for anything out of the ordinary, but only branches and vibrant foliage peered back at him. Satisfied that they would return to camp before the sun had set, he did not press the horses too strenuously; many were hauling the requisitioned wagons behind them. Seizing on a moment of quiet André turned his head toward Moreau, who followed several paces behind.
“Major, I would not mention this in front of the troopers, but there is a subject that I must have a frank discussion with you about when we return to camp.”
Moreau met André’s gaze with an impassive look. “If you wish, sir.”
André looked back at the road before him. “I do wish. And I will be straightforward with you now. It concerns your dueling, a practice which I’ve been told you have turned into something of a habit.” André paused, giving his subordinate time to consider the subject.
“I won’t pretend to guess your reasons for fighting three men in four months, but for the sake of duty and your responsibility as an officer to the soldiers you now lead, the dueling must stop.” André let the thought sink in. Hearing no reply, he turned to face his subordinate. “Have I made myself clear, major?”
After a long pause Moreau broke his silence. “If a man adheres to the principles of honor, sir, dueling is not only his right but his duty as a soldier and officer.”
André tugged at the reins, firmly restraining his horse, which had begun to jerk its head. “I am not asking you to forfeit your honor—but in times of war, feuds between two men of the same uniform are necessarily subordinated before the needs of the army and the nation. When the current war is concluded, you may call out any officer of the same rank as you wish, but while on campaign you will refrain from risking your life unnecessarily or you will be reprimanded according to the laws of military justice…”
André’s words trailed off as the two riders at the head of the formation stopped suddenly. In one movement they turned their horses around and started trotting back toward the main body of the squadron. André leaned forward in his saddle, straining his eyes to see what had caused the disturbance. Moreau scanned the woods on either side of the formation.
“The road is blocked, sir,” one of the troopers called out, reining his horse to a halt in front of André and Moreau.
“What do you mean it’s blocked?” Moreau asked.
“There’s a tree right ’cross the middle of the road. Don’t look like we can get anything through there, as is.”
André spurred his horse forward. Several meters ahead, around a bend in the road, a large oak tree lay felled, blocking their way. Its leaves still held their full foliage, and no other trees lay nearby to indicate a storm had brought it down. André gritted his teeth, muttering under his breath.
The trooper beside him looked at the tree with undisguised dread. “Oh, no. This must be deliberate.”
Major Moreau cocked his pistol. “Of course it’s deliberate, you idiot.” Without waiting for an order from André, he turned his horse and trotted past the troopers halted on either side of the road. “Well, what are you waiting for? Load your goddamn weapons!”
“Major Moreau,” André called out in a steady voice, “take your place at the rear of the formation, see if you can find us an alternate path out of here.” Moreau spurred his horse at a gallop back in the direction they had come.
“Sergeant-major,” André continued, “make sure the carts are turned around in an orderly fashion. We may have to depart quickly—”
At that moment a shrill cry rose up from the forest. Unseen voices cried out in piercing calls on either side of the squadron. André felt the familiar swell in his chest, the sensation a soldier knows all too well, that seizes one’s thoughts and threatens to grip the body in paralysis: primal fear. Unchecked, this fear seizes not only the individual it has taken hold of, but will emanate outward, touching every nearby man in turn.
As the cries grew louder André took a deep breath to steady his heart, which now raced in his chest. He moved his jaw to ease the slight twitch in his left cheek. For several seconds he was still, letting the fear wash over him until, without thought or intention, the long-dormant instinct within his breast began to swell outward. He gently urged his horse forward, passing his troopers as he rode behind them. At first he was unaware of the words he was speaking. His men held his gaze as he rode past, some nodding obediently, some even smiling as they too felt the elation of imminent battle surge through their veins. André’s task as commander was not to set fire to their courage, but to restrain and direct it with discipline and effectiveness.
Unsheathing his sword from its scabbard, he halted behind two troopers scanning the tree line with their muskets. “Steady with your aim. Pick your targets, conserve your ammunition. Don’t break formation until I tell you.” He saw his sergeant-major shouting orders as the carts were being turned. In the worst case, André knew, they could abandon the carts and make a mad dash for the relative safety of Görlitz. But being unaware of the enemy’s numbers and relative strength, he also knew they stood a better chance of fending off a larger force in a dense forest than in open country. They would just have to see what the enemy did first.
As he did his best to consider all these scenarios as quickly as possible, sharp musket reports echoed from the trees on their right. André searched the woods for movement or a muzzle flash, but all he could see were small puffs of smoke perhaps two hundred feet away. More shots rang out, and a tree several feet away took the smash of a musket ball. His horse reared back on its hind legs, and it took all his strength to stay in the saddle and get the beast on steady footing again.
He was pleased that none of his troopers had fired yet. Cool and disciplined, they were waiting for a proper target to reveal itself before expending precious ammunition.
All of a sudden, a slow rumble began to emerge from the direction of the smoke. André squinted, making out several figures on horseback charging through the trees. The soldier beside him raised his rifle, aimed, and fired. All around him a chorus of rifles discharged, and André urged his troopers on with firm reinforcement. The enemy horsemen came closer, and André switched his sword from his right hand to his left. Reaching into his belt he pulled out his pistol, cocked back the hammer, then aimed at a cluster of riders and pulled the trigger. A part of him felt like crying out in a wild frenzy, but he restrained himself, reholstering his pistol.
Behind the thick screen of smoke discharged from his troopers’ muskets he could hardly see beyond the nearest cluster of trees, so he rode several meters along his flank to get a clearer view. To his astonishment, the horsemen had stopped their charge and were now riding in the reverse direction, perhaps fleeing, but more likely regrouping as they worked up the courage for a decisive charge. He heard voices shouting in a foreign tongue, perhaps German, and some of his men replied with insults of their own.
Seizing on this momentary lull, he galloped toward the center of the formation. A young lieutenant named Vitry was calling out orders in a hoarse voice. Seeing his commander, he turned his horse. “Sir, we’ve finished turning the wagon train around, and Major Moreau is preparing to lead a charge to see if we can break out into higher ground. What are your orders?”
“Dammit, lieutenant, I have not given him any such orders! Tell him to remain where he is and to protect the horses and wagons, but not to go anywhere until I’ve given the order. If we get separated, they’ll cut us in two and destroy us one at a time. Hold your position!” André turned his horse back toward the front of the column when another growing din rose out of the woods. This time it came from the opposite side of the road.
André rode behind his troopers, who were frantically firing and reloading on either side of him. One man in front of him cried out as he dropped his weapon to the ground, grasping his left arm. André quickly dismounted, ran to where the weapon had fallen, picked it up, and handed it to the wounded soldier. “Keep firing!” he shouted at the dazed man, who could not have been older than twenty.
The enemy charged with a new ferocity now, shouting ever-louder as they got closer to André’s line. André estimated their strength to be well over three hundred, judging by what he’d seen on both sides of the road. How many more remained hidden out of sight he could not guess. They were now advancing on foot from the opposite side of the road as the first attack, and André suddenly realized his advantage. Calling out to his trumpeter, whose horse was pacing near the squadron standard-bearer, he ordered an advance toward the enemy attacking their right flank. The trumpeter called out the signal for the charge, and André raised his sword aloft, driving his horse toward the enemy.
As the cavalrymen crashed through trees and over the underbrush they screamed at the top of their lungs, partly to intimidate the enemy but also to fortify their own nerves, which were now being tested as they advanced. André kicked his horse to a gallop, screaming as he rode headlong toward the enemy.
He did not let his men go very far. As they advanced, the enemy fired off a few shots and began running farther into the woods, where a slight hill sloped upwards above the tree line. Not wanting to ride into some unseen obstacle or new mass of enemy troops, André halted. He shouted out an order for his men to regroup and return to the road. With reluctant groans, his men turned their mounts and trotted back in the direction they’d ridden. When he’d surveyed the ground and made sure none of his men were lying dead or wounded, he returned to the road himself.
He was met by Major Moreau, who held his sword aloft, blood dripping from the blade. “They have us surrounded. Horsemen are blocking the road to the rear, and they have scouts and infantry on either side. I make their numbers at about two hundred. What are your orders?”
André looked to the front of the column and then back to the rear. They would have to abandon the wagons and any unnecessary baggage. The spare horses would most likely be lost in any attempt to escape, if they could manage to escape.
“We’re surrounded. If we stay, we’ll be bled to death. Our only option is to punch through the rear and hope we can manage to break the trap and outride them to our camp by another road.”
“Sir, these are light cavalry, and they outnumber us at least two to one,” Sergeant-major Mazzarello, who had ridden alongside the two officers, added. “They’ll ride us down if they catch us in the open without infantry or artillery support.”
“We can either stay here and die one by one until we’re taken prisoner,” André answered, “or we can try and make our escape and get some of us out.”
Moreau spat. “If we had sent scouts ahead of us this would not have happened,” he said to no one in particular.
André glared at his subordinate, willing himself to restrain his temper. Meanwhile the enemy had returned with renewed vigor and were firing on both flanks. “We leave the carts and the spare horses, and we make our escape before the sun has gone down.”
ONE YEAR EARLIER
Chapter 2
Paris
1805
The dark-haired man standing outside the entrance gate fought back a frown, suddenly aware that he was one of the first guests to arrive at the soiree. “As I said a moment ago, I’ve come at the mayor’s invitation and patronage. From the prefect of Marseille.”
