Chapter Eight
1789, Paris
In my time in the Dragoons I saw comrades die, not even in battle but in skirmishes, and what for? So our king and queen could sleep happy in their gilded castle? My comrades and I spent long evenings talking, about our betters, about the unfairness of the world. About why one man born in one place should have everything when others have nothing. There were no Fontaines here; we had all known hardship, and few of my brothers in arms had any illusions about suffering simply being anybody’s deserved lot in life. Those who did think that way knew to keep it to themselves.
The wind was changing.
My regiment were in barracks to the far north of Paris, readying for a mission to catch a gang of smugglers on the border, when the shocking news reached us. After years of bad harvests and high bread prices, the French people – my people – had finally had enough of kings and princes and marquis and counts. The prisons had been opened, the newspaper said, and people were rioting in the streets. The king had been overthrown. A National Assembly had been formed to run the country.
It seemed as if those ideas of liberty, of freedom for all, which we had endlessly discussed, had at last begun to come true.
“Jacques, Louis!” I ran through the camp until I found my friends by the stables, seeing to our horses. “Listen to this –” I brandished the newspaper – “we are no longer subjects, we are citizens! We are free.”
“Does that mean I can put my feet up?” Jacques said.
“Listen, this is important! ‘All men are born free and remain equal in rights!’” I read aloud. I felt my heart growing full and perhaps, just perhaps, there was something in my eye. “All men! You and me, and every single one of us!”
I bought the wine that evening and we drank to liberty. I hoped that back on the islands, if they were still alive, my brothers and sister were free too.
We heard that the Palace Guard had decided to change their name: they were no longer protecting kings or queens, but their countrymen. They became the National Guard. We were still Dragoons, but now we fought for everyone, for all of France, and for liberty and equality.
Of course it was not an easy process. Upheaval and change brought with it a measure of chaos. Even posted as far from Paris as we were, we heard reports of looting and terror, of ordinary folk killed for no reason. But it was our duty as Dragoons to protect the citizens of France. In the summer of 1791, a nearby town called for help against looters, and twenty of us rode to their assistance.
The place was called Villers-Cotterêts, an old town on a hill. We rode in through the gates and were greeted in the square by the local mayor and a small crowd of townspeople. The mayor was also the local chief of the National Guard, he wore a tricolour cockade in his hat, the colours of the revolution – red white and blue.
He approached me first. “Citizen!” he said as he took off his hat.
Our captain sighed as he dismounted. “Just because he’s taller than the rest of us doesn’t mean he is in charge, sir,” he said, a little annoyed.
“Ha! Forgive me.” The mayor smiled. “I am Mayor Claude Labouret, innkeeper of the Hotel l’Ecu. But you may call me Citizen, we are all free men and women here.”
Jacques looked at me, grinning. He took off his army hat and threw it up into the air. “Vive la France!” he shouted, and the all town – myself included – joined in. “Vive la Republic!”
I noticed a girl standing in the crowd throwing up her cap along with everyone else. She had brown hair and the kindest eyes I had ever seen. I soon found out her name: Marie-Louise Labouret, the mayor’s daughter.
We were there for four months. It was a little like a holiday if I am honest. The town was on the main road, but Paris was a very long way away, and once word got out that twenty National Guardsmen were stationed here, the town’s granaries and food supplies were safe from looters. We barely had to do any fighting. Over the summer we helped with the harvest, or with any chores, and on other days the townsfolk took us into the surrounding forest to hunt boar and stags.
I spent a lot of time with Marie-Louise and her family. I told her stories of Saint-Domingue, of the tiny hummingbirds that were so small and flew so fast their wings were a blur of jewel-bright colour, of the songs of the tree frogs, the warm sea full of flying fish, and of the sunsets. And during those summer months we fell in love. I knew more than anything that I wanted to marry her, but how could I? As a common soldier it would not be fair. I did not earn enough for two.
That winter, word came of war on the borders. Since France had given up her king, other countries were afraid the revolution might spread. The armies of the Austrian Netherlands were attacking on our northern borders. A messenger came – the soft life was over. We were to join the battle.
“Alex, I will wait for you.” Marie-Louise walked with me into the entrance of the Hotel l’Ecu. She leaned close. “I promise,” she whispered. My heart sang.
“We ought to speak with your father,” I told her. “We must do this the right way.”
Citizen Labouret was in his office. I knocked and we both went inside. He looked up from his desk and I must admit I was more afraid at that moment than I ever was before or after – whether faced down by a hail of gunfire or locked in a dungeon for year on year.
“Citizen Labouret.” I coughed. I was almost strangled with nerves. “I have to ask a question, sir.”
He put down his pen. “I am all ears.”
“I...” Marie-Louise tugged at my arm. “I mean, we – we wish to marry. But I know... I know I am only a private, an ordinary soldier. Tomorrow I am off to the northern front. Marie-Louise has said she will wait for me. I ask – we ask – if you will allow us this marriage – if, and only if, I return at least a sergeant.”
Citizen Labouret looked at me. The silence seemed to go on forever. I must be mad, I thought, to imagine he would want someone like me in his family! I held my breath.
But in an instant Citizen Labouret had stood up and embraced first me, then his daughter. “My boy!” He shook his handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped at a tear. “I cannot imagine a better son-in-law!”
We left for the border, I with a spring in my step, thinking of how best to impress my commanders and win promotion. It would be hard. I had to first become a corporal, then a sergeant...
As we approached the border we met carts carrying wounded men back southwards. I had never seen war first-hand, and I thought then that perhaps I would be lucky merely to return alive. I shook the thought away. What better fight could there possibly be? Freedom, my country, and now my heart’s desire! I kicked my horse on towards the battle. However long it took, I would not let Marie-Louise down.
We were fighting for months. I became used to the smell of blood and the boom of cannon. Our unit was assigned to make raids on the enemy; I was put in charge of a group of four horsemen, Jacques and two others. We made camp in an old barn. Our maps said we were over the Belgian border and we felt twitchy, as if the enemy were all around.
“Build the fire smaller than usual, Jacques,” I said as I unsaddled my horse. “We’re too close for comfort.”
We all spoke in whispers that night. I did not sleep. The ground was damp and hard, and every night-bird screech or fox rustling in the hedgerow kept my eyes open.
At last I gave up and woke the others. “Come on, if we start now, we might surprise the enemy.”
We were all used to getting ready in the half-light, and soon we were riding out across the Belgian farmland.
We rode down a small track that ran along a ditch. On the far side of the ditch was a field planted with beans. The crop had grown tall; the war must have interrupted the harvest and the dry leaves rustled and crackled as we rode along the edge of it, a sea of stalks.
Suddenly my horse twitched his ears. I eased my weight down in my saddle to stop her, and put my hand up to signal my comrades behind me to stop. I listened. The world was still. A bird sung somewhere above. A wind ratt
led the dry leaves on the trees. And there was something moving in the bean field.
Suddenly there was a burst of sound as a Dutch raiding party galloped out of the crop and loaded up. Twelve men, mounted and armed. We started to turn our horses, but it would be no use.
“Too late!” I hissed. “Shall we die like cowards? Shot in the back?”
“There’s too many of them!” Jacques called. “They will kill us all!”
I wheeled my horse around. They were out of range of my pistol, but if I could get near enough with my sword I could take a few with me.
“Escape with the others. I’ll hold them off!” I kicked my horse into a canter. He was called Joseph, an army horse, solid and wide and yellow, hardly built for speed. But I knew I trusted him, and he trusted me.
I had one chance to save my men.
“Alex! No!”
I sat deep and kicked on. “All for one!” I yelled.
I did not stop to think if Joseph knew how to jump.
I leaned close to his neck and took my weight off his back, “Come on!” I whispered. Joseph sped up, my heart was in my mouth, but he cleared the ditch with metres to spare and landed squarely among the Dutch soldiers. I was so close I could see the worn gold braid on the nearest man’s tunic, and see his calloused hand reach for his gun. I let out a yell. “For liberty! For France!”
I took my sword in one hand and lay about the beanstalks, cutting them down like a man on fire. A gunshot, a clear miss. I scythed through the beans with my sword. I couldn’t stop now. Closer and closer – there was a man right in front of me, sunburnt, face worn from hard living. But I could see his eyes were tired. He was reloading, swearing. I had a chance. I spurred Joseph on, and when I was up against him, brought my elbow into his side – he crumpled sideways off his horse, gun and all. Behind me came another misfire and then the sound of a bullet hitting my sword, almost throwing it out of my grip.
Suddenly there was a yell. “Stop! Arretez!” Then the sound of rifles hitting the ground. I circled the men, counted twelve. They had their arms up. They were surrendering! It was over in seconds. The men dismounted.
I sat tall in my saddle and tried to hide the fact that I was shaking.
By the time Jacques came riding into the field I had twelve men sitting in line, their hands tied behind their backs.
We returned to camp heroes. Twelve prisoners, twelve horses, twelve Austrian-made carbine rifles, twelve army-issue sabres. Jacques stood me more wine than I could sink. Our captain wrote up a report – twelve prisoners, a record! – and I was promptly dispatched to Paris for a commendation. There would be, the captain promised, at least a medal.
I heard the news, as I rode to Paris, that the Republic was winning battles all along our frontier, freeing provinces of Belgium and Germany as we went. Our army was growing.
There was more than just a medal waiting for me in Paris. I was offered posts with two brand-new regiments, first as a sergeant with the Hussars of Liberty and Equality – and then I received a letter from my old friend and mentor, the Chevalier St George. I could not refuse. The Chevalier offered me the rank of lieutenant colonel, and the post of second-in-command of his new regiment, the Free Legion of Americans – the Black Legion. A band of men of all colours, fighting for equality. We took the name American and made it ours.
With the greatest swordsman as our commander, and with the hunger for equality that is known only too well to the oppressed, we would show France that our hearts beat for liberty too.
I met the Chevalier at the hôtel de ville in Paris. I bent down, and we embraced. “It is Colonel St Georges now, old friend.”
“And I am proud to fight by your side,” I told him. “But there is one thing I must do first, if you would give me leave?”
Of course he did. I returned to Marie-Louise in Villers-Cotterêts, and that November of 1792, we were married.
The Black Legion was like nothing I had ever experienced. It was almost like being at home. There were men from all over the islands, men from the United States, men who had been born free and men who had escaped the lash. We were like brothers. And as much as I missed Jacques and my other comrades in the Dragoons, it felt so easy being one of many instead of a rarity.
We were posted back to the Belgian border, doing the dirty jobs again – raiding and missions deep into enemy territory. My reputation grew, for while I was a commander, I always made sure I led my men to battle from the front.
Outside the world of war, France was changing faster than a spinning top. A school was set up in Paris where French children of colour and white children could have the very best education together. There would be liberty for all; the slaves on the islands would be free, in time. It truly felt like anything was possible.
There were even new names for the months, the days of the week. I was happy to be a citizen, to be a part of something new, something fair. But France’s enemies had grown in number; not only the Austrians, but Spain, Portugal, Naples and Great Britain stood against us.
Colonel St Georges became less involved with the regiment as the war wore on, and the day-today running of it became my affair alone. And an American legion was sadly treated less than fairly by the Ministry of War. We suffered with supplies not being sent and wages not being paid. Some of our best fighters left for the islands. More than once I imagined joining them, returning to the warm sand where I had grown up.
But I stood fast in my duty to defend our newfound liberty. And in the summer of 1793 I received a letter signed by the Minister of War. I had been promoted, Brigadier General of the Army of the North, and then by the end of September to Commander-in-Chief of the Army of the Alps. I was no longer at the head of ten, or even a hundred men, but tens of thousands. I was responsible for them, and most importantly I felt personally responsible for the fight for freedom and liberty for France. Our country.
I had a few days at home with Marie-Louise and our baby daughter before I had to leave again. She helped me on with my uniform, the blue jacket of the National Guard, the discreet gold braid that denoted my rank on my shoulder, and the tricolour of the revolution on my hat, a cockade of red, white and blue.
Marie-Louise kissed me. “You look...”
“Ah, this is nothing, you never saw me in my finery,” I laughed. I adjusted the jacket. “Although I think I would rather wear this than any of the finest silks or velvets in all the world.” I had gained this rank on my own, without the advantage of name or title. I couldn’t help feel my heart swell.
“Your father... What would he think of you now, do you think?” she said to me, picking up little Marie-Alexandrine, named for both of us. I had told her about my father; she knew how furious he had been when I had first enlisted with the Queen’s Dragoons.
“I don’t know, Marie,” I said, and bent to kiss the baby. I thought, not for the first time, that it was my duty to be a hundred times the father than mine had been. “But my mother – she would be proud. From slave to general? Who ever would have thought it?”
“And now all Europe stands against our country. You will stay safe, won’t you Alex?”
“I promise.”
“I am so scared, the stories from Paris... So many are dying. And it seems as if every country in Europe is out to fight us.”
“We will win, Marie, we have to win, we have to stay free.”
She nodded and I gave her a hug. Whatever happened in Paris, I told myself, I could not fail.
Chapter Nine
Winter 1794, The French Alps
I had never seen snow until that first winter in France when I was fifteen. Back home on the islands the sun was always hot, the sea always warm, and even the highest mountains were free of frost and ice.
But now I had been ordered to defend my country against Austria and her royalist Italian allies, the kingdom of Piedmont-Sardinia. Their king was intent on crushing our revolution and restoring the monarchy. We had to win.
My mission was to take the two well-guard
ed alpine mountain passes, Mont Cenis and Petit St Bernard, either side of a glacier – a massive river of ice – and so let our French armies cross the mountains into northern Italy.
This was a landscape I had never even dreamed of as a child, and now I was to lead thousands of men across miles of mountains to fight for our lives in winter.
I recruited Jacques Piston and Louis Espagne, from the Dragoons to fight alongside me. My second-in-command was General Sarret. We had an operations room, with a large map table in the centre, where we met to discuss our plans. Louis unrolled a map of the mountains and I traced the outlines of the passes, tiny dashes that showed the way from France into Italy. General Sarret was frowning.
“It looks impossible,” I said.
Jacques clapped me on the back. “Come on, Alex! If anyone can do it...”
“The enemy will see us coming from miles away,” Sarret said.
“My friends,” I said. “I have an idea. Remember last week I went up with some local mountain guides? They wear white smocks so they are unseen in the snow.”
Louis smiled.
I nodded. “I have already ordered enough for our fighting divisions to wear over our uniforms.”
“How many forts?” Sarret asked.
“Here, and here.” I pointed them out. “I have been up there to look. They have cannon and guns all ready and waiting.”
Jacques Piston whistled. “We will need a miracle.”
“And thousands of snowshoes,” I said. “The snow is so soft, men and horses will fall through. We have to wait until the weather turns.”
Sarret looked at me. “Is there no other way?”
I shook my head. “This is it.” I said.
“The Ministry of War will not be pleased,” said Sarret. “We need to march on Italy as soon as possible.”
“I will not risk my people’s lives.” I stood up. “We wait.”
To Liberty! the Adventures of Thomas-Alexandre Dumas Page 4
