Searchers in Winter, page 23
“Your presence puts me in quite big danger,” the guard continued translating, “so you will obey my commands—or I will say you’ve broken in. I only allow you to stay because I received word a week ago that if fighting were to break out, Frenchmen would seek refuge here. I was offered compensation for offering protection. I allow you to remain in my attic for a few days.”
Jean-Luc nodded gratefully, breathing a long sigh of relief that his advance payment had found its destination and evidently achieved its aim. “Very well. I do not wish to put anyone’s life in danger.”
Satisfied that his point had been made, the older man lowered the weapon. Placing it on the table, he threw up his hands; whether in exasperation or relief, Jean-Luc could not tell. The guard then informed Jean-Luc that he was welcome to a straw mattress in the attic but was not to step outside under any circumstances. The elderly man rose and led them up three flights of stairs; Jean-Luc was shown into a cramped room with a slanted ceiling that ended just above the crown of his head. The old man nodded, spoke a few words in Italian, and left the room.
“What does he say now?” Jean-Luc asked quietly, removing his boots and climbing onto the mattress.
“He says,” the guard replied, rubbing his eyes with both hands, “that you French think you are bringing us liberty, when all you bring are the wild offspring of your own wars. Your own hatred.”
Jean-Luc merely nodded as the guard bid his farewell. The door closed, and Jean-Luc shut his eyes and fell quickly into a deep sleep.
After a couple of days spent writing letters to his colleagues—as well as one to the family of his murdered assistant—Jean-Luc was taken to the grand palace. He kept his promise to the Lazzaroni responsible for his escape, leaving the promised fifty-franc Napoleons, which his host at Casa Laganà had withdrawn using Jean-Luc’s bank number at the bureau that had sheltered him. Maxime, who had made his way to the bureau the day before, accompanied him on the short walk to meet with their new captors. No longer serving in the official capacity as diplomat of the French Imperial Senate, Jean-Luc presented himself at the palace as a hostage—albeit a valuable one.
Following several hours of negotiations with the British admiral now commanding the city, Jean-Luc was instructed to prepare to travel north to French lines. He was to be released—exchanged along with two dozen of his countrymen for twice that number of the enemy’s own prisoners.
The following morning Jean-Luc and Maxime found themselves at the head of a train of carriages crossing the Italian countryside, making their way to French-held territory outside Rome. As the carriage ascended the hills beyond the gates of the city, Jean-Luc did not turn back. Though he felt an enormous relief that he and his young associate were to be freed and united with their families, he nevertheless felt a shadow of intense guilt at the loss Pierre-Henry, and he found himself recalling the night of their capture repeatedly in his mind: What if he had locked the doors and instructed his young companions to stay inside? What if he had asked for an armed guard? He did not share his thoughts with Maxime, who by some miracle had escaped his own captivity and managed to find his cell, joining him in refuge a few days later. For now, the thought that the young man was returning with him was enough to keep his thoughts from descending into total gloom.
For two days they crossed the rolling hills of the Kingdom of Naples, passing magnificent olive vineyards and orchards of cypress and cherry laurel. On the third day their convoy approached the outskirts of Rome, which, in days of peace, would have inspired all of Jean-Luc’s enthusiasm and curiosity. But the nagging shame and trauma, which had only grown worse as the journey wore on, stifled any sense of wonder at his first sight of the eternal city.
It was in this mood that Jean-Luc found himself awaiting the formalities of the transfer of prisoners. The tedious process took the better part of the night; English officers and their Neapolitan escorts rode ahead to meet with the deputies of Marshal Massena. Jean-Luc and his companions passed the evening on the grass, sleeping under the open stars. When the negotiations were concluded, the French prisoners were marched to a municipal building nearby, where they were welcomed by a brigadier general of the Grand Armée. Their joyous “first homecoming” was little more than a rehearsed greeting, followed by a reading of the morning’s Grand Armée Bulletin, wherein his newly freed compatriots were briefed, somewhat insensitively, on all the charms of Naples, the city of their recent captivity. Most significant among the news to Jean-Luc, however, was a proclamation from the emperor regarding Joseph Napoleon:
Napoleon, by the grace of God and the constitutions. Emperor of the French and King of Italy, to all those to whom these presents come, salutation. The interests of our people, the honour of our crown, and the tranquility of the Continent of Europe requiring that we should assure, in a stable and definite manner, the lot of the people of Naples and of Sicily, who have fallen into our power by the right of conquest, and who constitute a part of the grand empire, we declare that we recognize, as King of Naples and of Sicily, our well-beloved brother, Joseph Napoleon, Grand Elector of France. This crown will be hereditary, by order of primogeniture, in his descendants masculine, legitimate, and natural….”
Ignoring the cheerful embraces and exclamations of his compatriots, Jean-Luc stood aside, contemplating the meaning of this announcement. His mood quickly turned sour. We were sent to Naples, delivered to the Lazzaroni as live bait to be saved by the emperor’s valiant troops. Meanwhile, his brother will enjoy the spoils of another conquest by the placing of a foreign crown upon his head.
His return from Rome took nearly a month, and as he inched closer to Paris the letters of relief, and even congratulations, began finding him. At long last he received a letter from Isabella, from whom he had not heard since his captivity. The tone of her letter was one of fear and grief, almost to the point of despair. He felt relieved to be returning to her, not wishing to cause her any further pain. Her letter touched upon Mathieu and Mariette, whom he anxiously longed to see and hold. He had spent countless hours after the night of Pierre-Henry’s murder in candid meditation upon his own possible death, but the thought of leaving his children orphans in a mad world was unbearable. Her letter assured him that they were well and overjoyed to hear of their father’s imminent return.
Chapter 31
Posen
November 1806
Colonel Menard sat in his tent with his elbows propped on a small wooden desk, and when André presented himself, the brigade commander let out an exaggerated exhale.
“Valiere,” he said slowly, rolling his eyes before dropping them to the ground. “I truly don’t know what to do with you. In the handful of straightforward missions I’ve given you, you’ve managed to get yourself ambushed, meander your way behind enemy lines, allow your executive officer to nearly get murdered, and now, I have a captain reporting to me that his commanding officer has disappeared for two weeks with a Polish peasant in search of a witch in the mountains!” The colonel’s face flushed.
“It wasn’t a fortnight, sir.”
“What?” The colonel seethed.
“We were only away from our billet for four days—”
“Oh, bollocks.” Colonel Menard stared at him, exasperated. “You do realize that there is a war going on?”
“I do, sir, and I understand that my recent absence would appear unwarranted, but it is because we are at war that I deemed it a necessary risk. To do whatever was in my power to save the life of my executive officer, Marcel Moreau. He is an excellent officer, sir, and one I consider indispensable for when the time comes to close with the enemy.”
Colonel Menard waved dismissively. “Save it, Valiere. Your decision to abandon your squadron in the middle of a campaign is a dereliction of duty punishable by court martial. If only you had the requisite discipline to perform your duties as required, and not as you wished, you might have made something of yourself. Like that fellow, Carnassier, who snatched you from the ambush and saved your hides. It’s a shame you did not learn a thing or two while you were under his charge.”
André nearly fell over when he heard the hussar’s name.
“Now we are ordered into winter quarters by the emperor, who sits in Warsaw enjoying his latest prize, and I don’t know whether to send you home or return you to the enemy, as you seem to prefer their company over that of your own army.”
“Sir, I’d like to reiterate my gratitude to Major Carnassier and his brave hussar troopers. Without them, we’d surely have been lost.”
Colonel Menard grunted in agreement.
“As embarrassing as it is to admit, colonel, you are absolutely correct. I could only ever aspire to be the commander and soldier that he is. If only I could thank him in person. Do you know where the Seventh Hussars are camped?”
Menard eyed André with a look bordering on disdain. “Valiere, I don’t mean to be unnecessarily cruel, but I believe you should have left this war to the career soldiers. You may have been an adequate junior officer during the Revolution, but those days are long gone. This empire requires a different sort of man. When this campaign has been won, perhaps it would be for the best if you returned to your farm in Normandy.”
André’s jaw clenched. “Sir, in that we are in perfect agreement.”
Menard nodded almost sympathetically. “For the time being,” he continued, “you will remain in command of the Seventeenth Dragoons, but you will not depart from the regiment without my explicit authorization. Lieutenant-Colonel, I will offer you this one final warning—do not get yourself into any more difficulties. I will be watching you, just as the emperor’s eyes are watching me; we must not disappoint him. The Russians may be inept, but, nevertheless, we must remain vigilant.”
André went to attention, saluting with feigned enthusiasm: “Vive l’Empereur!”
Menard offered a half-hearted salute in return. As André turned to depart the colonel called out, “Oh, and Valiere, if you wish to convey your thanks to the major by courier, Carnassier and the Seventh Hussars are camped in Mława with Marshal Ney’s corps. Near the city of Soldau.”
“So, we find him and kill him, right, sir?” Mazzarello asked André that evening. They were joined by Moreau, the three of them huddled around a fire, holding their hands over the flames for warmth. André had been ordered to hold the squadron across the Vistula in the outskirts of Posen, to guard the city’s eastern flank, where they would take up winter quarters. Every man in the squadron was eager to be out of the elements and under a roof once more, but the crowded roads and bottleneck of thousands of soldiers trying to cross a single bridge into the city meant they must bivouac in the snow for another day or two.
“It’s not quite that simple,” André replied, wrapping himself tighter under his cloak. “If I depart on another wild-goose chase, the colonel might kill me himself. I must stay here with the squadron.”
Moreau jabbed at one of the logs in the fire with a branch.
“And if that is the case,” André continued, “I will not send you or any of the men to risk their lives while I sit here in safety.”
“But the Silesian man is our enemy,” Mazzarello replied. “And he is working with that hussar devil. How do we stop them from getting the riches if you are stuck here?”
André exhaled a visible cloud of icy breath. “I’m thinking on it, Paolo.”
The three sat brooding with only the sound of the crackling fire and a howling wind to accompany their thoughts. At last Moreau spoke.
“If Carnassier is using spies to further his ends, why don’t we use our own against him?”
Mazzarello laughed aloud. “Our own spies. Should we call on the emperor and ask if we may borrow some of his agents?”
Moreau gestured to where the rest of the squadron was camped. “We have a resource, sir. One that I doubt our allies or enemies would ever suspect.”
After a moment of consideration, a look of understanding dawned on André’s features. He shook his head slowly. “No. Major, I won’t allow it.”
Moreau set the stick he’d been using to tend the fire on the ground beside him. “Colonel Valiere, her grandfather was killed by the man himself. She rode a hundred miles across an active theater of war of her own will; when I was passing through the door of death, she wrenched me back. If this were beyond her capacity, I would gladly oppose it. But we are out of sound options, and Carnassier must be stopped.”
Mazzarello turned to André. “He makes a decent point, sir.”
“I know he makes a decent point,” André replied irritably, “but we have to consider the danger involved—”
“Fuck the danger involved!” Moreau snarled. Instantly conceding his insubordination, he lowered his eyes and apologized.
“I understand your reasoning, major.” André sat back wearily. “But before we send a woman—one not duty-bound to our own nation—into the lion’s den, I would like to consider all potential courses of action. And besides, I would like to know: Is this truly about stopping Carnassier? Or seeking revenge? You still have three ‘worthy’ duels left, remember?”
Mazzarello looked at both men. “What worthy duels?”
Moreau wrapped his coat tighter to his chest. “Only two remain now.”
André stared at his executive officer. “What?”
Moreau stared into the fire. “When I was set upon,” he said in a quiet voice, “and wounded in the village on the road to Posen, it didn’t happen by chance. The evening we’d arrived, after the inn had all but cleared out, I challenged Alderic to a duel. I found a drunken infantryman to serve as my second, and we met behind the town church. It was an hour after midnight. Alderic allowed me to choose the weapon; I chose swords. We would fight to prostration, though we both knew a mortal wound to be the desired end for both parties. I wished to kill him with my own hand, to feel the life depart from his body. In the duration of a minute, perhaps less, he had slashed me along the ribs. I had pierced both his right leg and his shoulder, and he was losing strength quickly. Another cut and I would have had him. I was on the cusp of victory when I felt a staggering blow to the back of my head. I fell to the ground. I saw a gang of six or seven of Carnassier’s men descending on me, knives drawn. I tried to defend myself, but after the third or fourth wound I felt the air in my lungs depart.” The wind calmed, and only the hushed pop of dying embers could be heard. André and Mazzarello stared at Moreau, who threw the stick onto the meager flames. “I regret the trouble I have caused both of you in tending to me in my condition and the journey you were forced to make. I have failed you.”
Mazzarello looked obligingly to André, as if ceding the response to his commanding officer. After a tense silence, André leaned forward, removing the cloths covering his face. He eyed Moreau with an icy stare.
“Major, you haven’t failed the two of us. I understand the need to defend your honor, as any soldier would. But by putting your own selfish desire for vengeance before your duties as an officer and leader, you abandoned every trooper in this squadron and repaid their loyalty with weakness.” He stood up, wiping a layer of snow from the sleeves of his coat. “Go to sleep, both of you. In the morning I will tell you what I have decided to do.”
He stalked off into the freezing night, his boots crunching in the snow. He had not gone far when he nearly bumped into a sack set alongside another fire. He halted, taking a few seconds to warm his hands. As he stomped his feet to keep them from losing feeling, he looked up at the wintry sky, noticing the clarity of the stars. On nights like these he could not help but admire their brilliance. In a strange way, not unlike the experience of battle, he considered them a glimpse into the face of the almighty. Was there something more than this realm of flesh, blood, and dirt? Was God watching him in this very instant, sending love and protection? Or would a bullet or saber find him on the field and put an end to his earthly existence? Was man simply a heap of flesh and bone passing down the never-ending stream of life? His heart longed for home.
Suddenly, a movement to his right caused him to reach instinctively for his saber. The sack he had nearly trampled over moved, and a figure emerged from beneath a wool blanket. “You may sit if you wish.”
“Alicja, is that you?” he asked, laughing away his startled nerves. “I almost…”
“It’s me, lieutenant-colonel. I was almost asleep.”
André sighed as he sat down beside the fire. His body ached from the days of riding. “I’ve just found out that Moreau was not attacked arbitrarily by Carnassier’s men. He was attacked, to be sure, but only after he had wounded Alderic in a duel.”
“Yes, I know,” she replied quietly.
“You do?” André shook his head. “Is there any other information concerning my squadron that you two are hoarding you might consider worth sharing?”
Alicja laughed at André’s earnest irritation. “Colonel, perhaps Marcel knew the hussar would be coming to challenge him and decided to preempt it by calling him out. After all that he’s been through, I hardly think he deserves to be punished for an excess of bravery.”
“Mademoiselle Jarzyna,” André began, hoping to expose some fault in her logic. Finding none, he kicked the snow with his boot. “I’ve never dealt with anyone quite like Major Moreau before. I really don’t know what to make of him.”
“Truly?” she asked, holding a half-frozen hand over the fire. “Or is there something else troubling you and you are letting your anger out on him?”
André eyed her sideways: How had a Polish peasant woman come to understand so much about people? He closed his eyes with a yawn. “Well, if you can’t fall asleep, go see the major, he has a task for you.”
