by Todd Shryock
We were starting to climb the hill now, and many of the enemy were sheltering behind trees, which I found most unfair, as I had no cover.
“Take your shot,” Niklas reminded me as he finished loading.
I aimed at a white spot between two trees that I assumed was a man’s coat. I cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger. The flint slapped against the steel, showering sparks into the empty pan.
I had forgotten to finish loading while studying my dead adversary and was now quite embarrassed, imagining the whole battalion had seen my oversight.
I looked at Niklas, a blank expression on my face.
“Fix it!” he demanded, his eyes shifting back to the enemy.
Yes, fix it. The gun was obviously broken -- the flint! I would blame the flint! I scrambled about loading another cartridge as quickly as I could, hoping Niklas would not look back and catch me at my deception. The musket was soon loaded and no one was the wiser -- my reputation was saved.
“Ready!” I called, the words hardly out of my mouth before his musket boomed.
Up the hill we went, the muskets firing. The enemy’s fire increased at first, then slowed as we approached. Most of their shots were well high, knocking leaves off nearby trees and slamming into trunks, sending pieces of bark flying.
There was a steady haze of smoke near the crest, but through gaps, I could see men pulling back, some dragging comrades with them. Apparently they did not have the heart to fight us any longer, and for that I was glad, for I had no idea how to use the bayonet on the end of my musket.
We crested the ridge, revealing a slowly sloping field beyond, a ragged row of whitecoats retreating, some pausing to fire desultory shots in our direction before turning and running to catch their comrades.
“Halt! Halt!” the sergeant yelled. “Hold this line!”
We formed a line along the crest as the rest of our battalion pushed forward across the field and through the ravine below and behind us.
“Congratulations, Henri,” Niklas said, patting me on my shoulder. “You survived your first battle.”
Chapter 2
The open field below the hill became our camp for the night, though camp was more of a location than a description. There were no tents, so we were left to gather around the fires that were rapidly built after the skirmish. The Austrians were gone, and some other unit was pushed to the front, leaving us safely behind our own lines, at least for the time being.
As the sun began to set, the air cooled, and we unrolled our great coats and slipped into them, rubbing our hands above the fire.
We waited for hours for our rations to be distributed, but as darkness fell, our hopes dimmed. I shared the bread I liberated from the Austrian -- the dead Austrian, I reminded myself -- with Niklas. It wasn’t much, especially divided in half, but it warded off the hunger pangs for now. We were joined at our fire by Simon, Karl and a new fellow, Jannick Huber, another lad about my age with blond hair and piercing brown eyes that made him look angry.
A shadow approached from the darkness. It was old Gebhard, looking like he had aged another five years from the battle, his face gaunt and his eyes lacking any spark. “There will be no rations tonight,” he said with little emotion. “I just heard the captain talking, and he said the supply wagons are lost on the road somewhere and the road is so clogged with French traffic, there is no way for them to get here tonight.”
Jannick growled. “I bet the French aren’t hungry.”
“The French aren’t hungry because they go out and steal whatever they want to eat,” Niklas said as he poked aimlessly at the fire.
Gebhard stood staring at the flames.
“Why don’t you sit down, Gebhard?” Karl offered, his red hair struggling to break free from his soft fatigue cap, the shako stacked next to his pack for the night.
The older man grunted, then pulled out his pipe. “I think I’ll walk a bit.” He tapped out some tobacco and disappeared into the darkness that was quickly swallowing the camp.
“Walk a bit?” Simon asked, looking at me. “Can you believe him? We walked halfway across Europe today, and he wants to walk a bit more.”
“That’s why he’s so tired looking,” Karl said. “Always walking, but never eating.”
“I’m hungry,” Jannick said. He suddenly perked up and began to look around. “Let’s go get something.”
“The wagons aren’t here, remember?” Niklas reminded him, still poking aimlessly at the fire with a thin stick.
“I’m not talking about wagons,” Jannick said, standing up. “There were a few farmhouses back over the rise. I’m sure we could find something to eat there.”
“Zorn is never going to let you go. Raiding isn’t allowed,” Simon said.
Jannick smiled. “Not asking Zorn, now am I, Italy? Who’s coming with me to pilfer some wonderful pies and some fresh milk?”
He looked at me, but my terrified look gave him my answer. He turned to Karl. “Aren’t you hungry, Karl?”
“I’m starving,” he said quietly. “Hardly eaten in two days.” He looked up at Jannick. “I’ll go.”
Jannick smiled. He picked up his musket and threw the strap over his shoulder.
“What do you need that for?” Simon asked, worried.
“In case the farmer doesn’t want to share his bounty,” he said mockingly. “While you cowards sit here and starve to death, Karl and I will be enjoying some fresh meat filling our stomachs.”
“Maybe the farmer will have a cute daughter,” Karl offered as he shouldered his gun.
“Do you know what the penalty for marauding is?” Simon asked.
“That only matters if you get caught,” Jannick said. “And since I’m not getting caught, it doesn’t matter.” He nodded to Karl to follow him, and the two began to walk away.
“If you get challenged by a picket, tell them who you are and that you were told to march the picket line by the sergeant of the guard,” Niklas said.
Jannick snickered and walked away, Karl in tow.
“Fools,” Simon said quietly.
The camp was protected by pickets, though most of them would be toward the Austrians, and Jannick and Karl were going the other way. But there were also plenty of sergeants and officers about, and they were always on the watch for deserters, marauders and any other men with bad intentions. I didn’t know what the punishment was for leaving camp, and I didn’t want to know. All I wanted was to not be on my feet and to sleep. Using my pack as a pillow and positioning myself as close to the fire as I dared without setting myself ablaze, I put my head down and instantly fell asleep.
***
Sometime in the night, the bread wagons must have found their way in, because when the drums sounded to wake us from our short slumber, we were mustered into lines to get our share. Shuffling forward, half-asleep on my feet, I could smell not only the bread, but coffee and meat -- the latter I’m sure reserved for officers.
Niklas ended up in line beside me. When my eyes met his, he looked worried.
“Have you seen Jannick?” he asked. “Karl?”
I shook my head. “No, but it’s early and dark and I wasn’t looking.” Some of the other men were looking at me, listening to our conversation, and I was afraid to ask any questions, fearing they might tell an officer.
When it was my turn in line, I was given a small loaf of bread, a handful of dried peas and a piece of what looked like someone’s old boot.
“Beef?” I ventured.
The corporal in charge glared at me. “Lamb. Move it.”
I returned to our small fire and did what I could to bring it back to life. Soon, Niklas and Simon were beside me, gnawing on their rations. As I anticipated, the old piece of boot the corporal referred to as lamb tasted not only like leather, but sweaty leather with a coating of dust in lieu of salt.
Jannick emerged from the pre-dawn darkness and dropped to the ground, looking dirty and exhausted.
“Was beginning to worry you got caught,” Nikla
s said, keeping his voice down in case the ever-lurking Zorn was nearby.
“It was close,” he said. “Managed to get out easy enough, but this morning’s pickets were a bit more vigilant than last night’s.”
“Where’s Karl?” I asked.
Jannick looked at me with his angry eyes. “We got separated on the way back.”
“You left him?” Simon said, displeased. “We don’t leave brothers behind.”
“He’s not my brother, and it’s not my fault his fat ass is too slow. I’m sure he’s fine.”
No one said anything, content to chew their leathery meat while passing judgment on Jannick.
“Here I am, lads,” Karl said, plopping himself down next to me. The mood of the others changed instantly.
“So, did you get much?” Simon asked.
Karl shrugged. “A few eggs that we ate over the farmer’s fire and some fresh milk.”
“Daughter?” Simon asked.
Karl shook his head. “No, but the food was worth the effort. I think I’ll go get in line for some rations.” He pulled himself up, hitching up his pants before moving toward the ration wagons.
After a few minutes, I gave up trying to chew the meat, settling for cutting it into small chunks and swallowing them whole. I ate the dry, equally chewy bread and put the dried peas in my haversack for later.
By the time Karl returned, Gebhard was fully dressed and making his way from fire to fire, spreading the news. “Battalion assembly,” he moaned. “Sounds like someone is getting punished.”
I looked at Karl, worried he had been discovered.
“Nah,” he said. “If they knew it was me, I’d already be facing Zorn. Has to be someone else.”
Relieved, I quickly moved to fix my uniform and roll up my great coat as Zorn moved around screaming at anyone and everyone to move faster. I was fastening the final button when the drums beat for us to fall in.
A few minutes later, the entire battalion was formed up in a hollow square three-ranks deep. In the center, a colonel and several other officers stood clumped together near a dead tree, while the sergeants conferred in their own circle, a civilian in their midst.
“Wonder what this is about?” Niklas, who was beside me in the front rank, asked.
Several army musicians entered the square, their colorful uniforms a contrast to our drab green. One of them rolled a spare wagon wheel toward the tree, another carrying a length of rope.
“The lash,” Simon whispered. “Someone is getting the lash.”
The men began to shift uneasily around me.
“Who knows what horrible offense someone has committed,” a man said from somewhere behind me. With all the sergeants a safe distance away, such comments were inevitable.
“Dropped a comb, probably,” one man ventured.
“No, sneezed while pitchforking hay for the colonel’s horse,” another offered.
Soon, men were offering suggestions ranging from the mundane to the lewd. The chatter grew loud enough that it caught the attention of the sergeants, who quickly broke to rejoin the ranks and restore order. Just the sight of them approaching was enough to cut off the chatter, draping us in worried silence.
All sergeants took their place in the ranks except for Zorn, who remained near the officers, watching the musicians lean the wheel against the tree and affix two lengths of rope to the upper portions of the rim. When complete, one of the musicians nodded to Zorn, who in turn called to the colonel.
The colonel was probably sixty and no doubt had not only seen our king, but most likely dined with him at some point in his life. His uniform, thanks to the two orderlies who worked for him, looked as if it had just come from the tailor’s table. His boots shined in the dawn light, and the braid on his uniform was probably worth more than a year’s pay for most of us.
Despite his age, his eyes were bright and his voice loud.
“Soldiers of the second battalion, we are here to serve discipline, per the general’s order,” he called out, slowly turning so that all could hear his words. “A local farmer came to us this morning, reporting that two soldiers had robbed him, despite the standing order against marauding.”
My knees started to shake. What would happen to Karl and Jannick?
“No way to know it was them,” Simon whispered to me. “No way.”
The colonel continued. “He described the uniforms of the marauders in great detail, which made it clear that it was someone from this very battalion.”
“Fools,” Niklas whispered. “They should have kept their great coats on. The coats are the same throughout the army.”
I got the impression that Niklas had quite a bit of experience marauding.
“Still no way to know it was them,” Simon whispered.
The colonel nodded to Sergeant Zorn, who took over the proceedings. “In addition to the uniforms,” Zorn said, his voice booming through the ranks, “was a description of one of the men.”
My heart began to race and my palms to sweat.
“A young man with red hair.” He let the words sink in as men started to glance to one side or the other, wondering if one of their comrades was the culprit. “All those with red hair, form a line here!” he yelled, pointing to a spot in front of him. The men hesitated, drawing his ire. “I said I want a line of all red-haired soldiers now!”
While there were six hundred or so of us, fewer than a dozen fit that description. Karl was one of the men who moved out from the ranks to stand at attention before the sergeant as the rest of the ranks looked on. Zorn moved up and down the short line, eyeing each man in succession. “Do any of you wish to admit to the crime?”
I waited, looking at Karl. I could see the worry on his face, but the other rankers looked equally scared.
“Very well,” he said, motioning for the farmer to approach. The sergeant said something to the farmer, who nodded and put his hat in his hand as he approached the line. He looked down the line and immediately locked his eyes on Karl. Animatedly, he began to point and jabber until the sergeant grabbed him by the arm to calm him down.
Zorn dismissed the rest of the red-haired soldiers, leaving Karl standing alone. The sergeant turned away from the boy to address the rest of us.
“The farmer says there was another lad,” Zorn said. “This man will now tell us who his accomplice was.”
Zorn turned and stared at Karl, who looked as if he were about to pass out. “Name him!” Zorn demanded.
The colonel moved to stand beside Zorn. “You must name him, private.”
“Sir, the farmer is mistaken. I acted alone,” Karl said, voice breaking.
The farmer grew angry and threw accusations I could not hear at Karl.
“I need a name, private,” the colonel said, calmly, bored with the proceedings.
“I acted alone, sir,” Karl repeated.
The colonel, seeing the man’s resolve, looked to the sergeant. “Proceed.”
Zorn motioned to the musicians, who took Karl by the wrists, dragged him to the wheel, stripped him to the waist and tied his wrists to the wheel.
“For marauding, the colonel has decreed one hundred lashes. For lying, another one hundred lashes,” Zorn declared.
“God help him,” Simon whispered as muttering broke out through the ranks until the other sergeants silenced them. “Two hundred?”
“Is there nothing to be done?” I asked, keeping my voice down. One of the musicians unrolled a long whip, the tail dropping to the ground. All eyes were on him as he stepped forward.
“Only if an officer speaks on his behalf,” Simon whispered.
“Will that happen?” I asked, hopeful.
Simon shook his head. “The officers who know him will not speak out in front of the colonel.”
The musician drew his arm back and let whip fly, cracking the leather across Karl’s back, causing him to wince and pull tightly against his bonds. One after another, the arm went forward, drawing a thin red line on the boy’s milk-white skin.
“Because if the officers suspect he’s going easy on him, he gets the lashes instead,” Niklas said.
Crack. Crack. Crack. On and on it went, Karl’s back turning into a crisscross of red lines as blood started to run from some of the wounds.
I lost count around the first hundred, becoming angrier with each stroke. He was hungry and went looking for food. If the army had delivered the rations like it was supposed to, there never would have been a reason to leave the camp. The officers stood in their group, noses in the air, watching with indifference as one of their soldiers was torn apart. Our French allies, in their enlightenment, banned the lash. Must we rise up and overthrow our king to gain the same privilege?
Karl was no longer wincing with each blow. His head lolled to one side as the punishment continued.
I looked at Zorn standing there, a sneer on his face. I wanted to take my bayonet and ram it through his heart.
“Two hundred, sir,” the musician called out, stepping back from the man, his breathing labored from the exertion of the lashing.
Zorn looked at the colonel and nodded, confirming the count.
The colonel stepped forward. “Let this be a lesson to any of you who would think to leave camp and steal from the local populace. We are here to help these people, not pilfer from them.”
With that, he was done. He strode off, several other officers hurrying to follow.
Zorn motioned for the musicians to cut Karl loose and then faced us. “Battalion dismissed. Return to camp and be prepared to march.”
The tidy square dissolved into a mass of men moving back toward fires that needed stoking, hushed voices whispering curses at the colonel and the other officers.
“They say Napoleon yelled at our crown prince for our marauding and that discipline will be more severe as a result,” one of the soldiers said as he walked by me.
“Maybe the delivery of supplies could be more severe, too,” another said.
