The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  The barricade seemed solid enough. There was a good few feet of earth and paving stone at the bottom of the barricade, which spanned the width of the narrow street. Above the earth and stone was a jumbled mass of timber from demolished vehicles and furniture. Above it all, the tricolor waved on Pascal’s flagstaff. A brazier continually boiled cleaning water some feet behind them. Loy’s words on the subject of cleaning had been dire, “The Charlevilles will become so dirty they’ll be impossible to load.”

  After fifteen shots, as a matter of fact.

  “When they do,” continued Loy, “Run to the brazier, change out the plunger on the loading rod for a screw, stuff wads of tow, these flax fibers here, throughout the spirals of the screw,” and he did so quickly and expertly, “Soak the tow in the boiling water, then clean the barrel with the soaking tow,” and he did so, with an efficient and practiced manner, “Then run back to your post - hopefully after you remembered to change out the screw for the loading plunger. If you didn’t, you’ll find out your mistake soon enough.”

  The moment Jake ran out of tow fiber or hot water, every one of his men was suddenly on their last fifteen possible shots and counting with every pull of the trigger. That wasn’t even a tactical problem - that was just cleaning. Maybe the rags of a torn-up shirt would work in a pinch. Jake had no idea how the actual fighting would go. Loy did, “You’ll like combat as much as the smell of another man’s merde in your chamber pot. Just do your best, and try not to lose your life or, more importantly, your foutu loading rod,” he said, with an empathy and gentleness that belied his words.

  But now it was the cold of the morning after, and, presumably, the dawn of battle.

  Jake reached the other side of the barricade with only minor scrapes, and went over to the corner. “Good morning, Gutek,” he said.

  Gutek nodded back, “Take a look.”

  Jake peered around the corner. Perhaps five or six blocks away was the square holding the city gate of Porte de Charenton - and an anthill parade of red and blue Parisian National Guard. There must have been hundreds. Rows of soldiers, cannon, and officers on horseback were poised for the upcoming battle. Jake was impressed and resentful. They looked magnificent, well-trained and organized.

  Jake turned, and saw the Bavarian staring at him over the barricade. Jake made a gesture: “everyone”, then “shake them awake.” The Bavarian nodded, and disappeared from view. Jake turned and peered back at the soldiers. Nothing was really happening - yet. He spoke to Gutek, “Keep me abreast of any movement.”

  Gutek nodded, and Jake ran back and climbed over the barricade. After a few moments, his heart stopped trying to leap from his chest. With a subsequent drop in adrenaline came realization. It was a cold, dank morning. It was early, but somehow still too bright. Jake felt greasy. His mouth was full of dirty cotton. He felt a weird, high-pitched kind of angst, one that only comes from lack of sleep, and too much drink the night before. He made it to the friendly side of the defenses, and saw Franck. “Good morning, Citizen,” offered Jake mirthlessly.

  “I don’t know what’s good about it. I feel like bird droppings dried on a roof, and buttered with dew.”

  Suddenly, all heads turned at a sound. Most of Jake’s command was now awake, thanks to the Bavarian. They all heard it.

  Battle.

  It came from somewhere in the neighborhood, one of a half-dozen nearby barricades. Everyone instantly perked up and eyes went wide. The sound was almost like rain - but the sound of a droplet hitting the ground was actually the report of a musket. The rain started slowly, gaining frequency and intensity, until it was a torrential downpour. Jake had no idea how many muskets had to fire in order to produce such a sound. It was sobering to think that the muskets were in the hands of real people, all aiming at each other, all thinking and acting quickly and effectively in their quest to kill each other. It was intimidating to think of battle in such a way, that both sides had equal chance and opportunity to die or be slain.

  There had to be a skill to it, like all things. Skill came from talent, training and experience, then factored by passion. Jake’s command had neither training or experience, and their opponent had both.

  Franck shook his head in awe and wonderment at the sound. He turned to Jake, and they shared a look. Both knew, in that moment, that neither one of them had any idea of what was going to happen. Somehow, they were going to face events as best they could. In spite of such grim thoughts, Jake no longer questioned why he was there. He simply was, with these men and women, and that was all. He could only give everything he had in service to them and the cause. Everything he had happened to be not much at all, but that could not be helped.

  One of the prostitutes; thirty, thin as a thirteen-year-old boy, a nondescript brunette with big, crooked teeth, jumped on the barricade and turned with wild, cruel eyes.

  “Rain clouds of red and blue,

  Come make your sound with us!

  I’ll show my hate for you,

  With smoke ’n fire and lust,

  I’ll eat your heart with eggs,

  And pull your guts to tie me bust!”

  The defenders cheered and laughed. The prostitute cackled with her crazy eyes, the very personification of insanity and contempt.

  “So, no breakfast?” yawned Franck.

  Jake didn’t say anything. Gutek, from the corner, turned and yelled, “A mounted officer bearing a white flag now comes.”

  “Let him pass!” Jake yelled, then he turned to the barricade defenders, “Do not fire at this approaching man without my order! Do not fire!” Jake heard his command repeated down the line.

  There was a long moment of waiting. Jake became nervous and restless. He turned to Pierre, and handed him his coin pouch. “See if you can’t get us coffee, and some breakfast. Boiled eggs, or croissants au beurre. Something. And some water and towels to clean up with. I feel disgusting.” Pierre ran off. Jake had no idea how much time they had before the shooting started, but felt better giving orders. He saw Zacharie further down the line. Jake spoke again, “Zacharie, wake up the street. Get everyone down here who wants to fight.” Zacharie nodded and walked off, screaming at the top of his lungs.

  “Citizens of Saint-Antoine! Come defend your neighborhood!” he yelled.

  Jake heard a horse approaching, and his attention became focused. Soon an officer carrying a white flag appeared, and pulled his horse to a stop. He was a Chef de Bataillon, a Major, was in his late forties, had a round face and a bushy mustache. He was clean-shaven otherwise, but his cheeks were black with the beginnings of stubble. He came within twenty feet of the barricade. “That’s far enough, Major,” said Jake.

  The Major stopped, and looked them over. “How are you addressed, Monsieur?”

  “I am Citizen or Commander,” said Jake with a revolutionary zeal he didn’t particularly feel at the moment.

  “Very well, Commander. I am Major Marie-Pierre Alphonse Roux. Good morning to you.”

  “What do you wish, Major Roux?”

  “What I wish, I do not think I will receive.”

  “Are you Poissard? Or have you decided to speak in riddles?” Jake said, and his men laughed.

  Roux was not angered, “No, Commander. I am not Poissard, and it is not my intention to be obtuse. I simply do not wish my countrymen to die this morning, but I fear they have already. I especially do not want you to die, not young men and women such as yourselves. I am an old soldier, and I assure you that battle is no respecter of youth. Quite the opposite.”

  “Speak your message, Major,” Jake said. He heard a stony hardness to his own voice.

  The Major replied, “You are hopelessly outnumbered, tactically and operationally. You have no choice but to honorably surrender, in order to prevent the needless deaths of your command and mine.”

  “You don’t understand what is about to happen. We have fifty-thousand muskets. You are about to fight all of Paris, Major.”

  “No, Commander. We control all outlying dis
tricts and the left-bank. The city has not risen against her King.”

  “The day is young, Major. And my orders are to hold. And I will, come what may.”

  After a moment, the Major removed his hat and held it above his head. “Then I salute you, as a fellow soldier of France. We will give you an honorable death.”

  Cyril spoke, “Not if we can beat you to it, old man.”

  “Quiet!” barked Jake. He turned back to the Major, “You have come to us honorably, and you will leave with your honor intact. But know this, we are true sons of liberty. We stand for the rights of man - to determine his destiny, and govern himself. Win or lose, we die for freedom. Long live the Nation! Long live the Fatherland!”

  Jake’s men went cheered with full throats. The Major saluted once again, and rode back the way he came.

  That was a very French moment, thought Jake. I think I must have gone completely native. The Gaul loved war and everything about it. They fought and dueled over minor slights. They argued over politics, art, philosophy and food. Jake wondered what people back home in Wellesley, the home of a literally opposite temperament, would think of his hot-blooded theatrics.

  His men behind the barricade broke spontaneously into the Ça Ira.

  “Ah! It'll be fine, It'll be fine, It'll be fine!

  Aristocrats to the lamp-post!

  Ah! It'll be fine, It'll be fine, It'll be fine!

  The aristocrats, we'll hang them!

  If we don't hang them,

  We'll break them.

  If we don't break them,

  We'll burn them

  Ah! It'll be fine, It'll be fine, It'll be fine!”

  There were other versions of the song. The one they sang belonged to the revolutionary Poissard, the Paris Sans-Culotte. Jake looked out over the barricade. Gutek and the scouts still peered south down the continuation of Charenton.

  Franck turned to him, “Do you know where that song comes from?”

  “From the True Revolution.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “We’ll have no more nobles nor priests!

  Ah! It'll be fine, It'll be fine, It'll be fine!

  Equality will reign everywhere.

  The Austrian slave shall follow him.

  Ah! It'll be fine, It'll be fine, It'll be fine!

  And their infernal clique

  Shall go to hell!”

  Franck spoke again, “Benjamin Franklin was in Paris, during the American Revolution. Whenever someone asked him about the rebels getting defeated, he’d always say, “Ça Ira! Ça Ira!”

  It’ll be fine! It’ll be fine!

  Franck continued, “He was so popular, we turned it into a song for our own revolution.”

  “Amazing.” Jake was glad Franck was talking. That was most likely the exact reason why he was talking, he just realized.

  Gutek gave Jake hand signals – “many come.” Jake waved him back, and soon the scouts were being helped as they climbed over the barricade. Jake heard drums beating a march. They were on their way. People were going to die very soon.

  Yesterday, Loy had pulled Jake to one side, out of earshot of the men, “A frontal assault against a prepared position is the most difficult task a soldier can face. That particular is in your favor. But there are plenty of other factors. There is only a short distance between your attackers and the barricade once they make the turn. That is good and bad – mostly good because it eliminates artillery. The King has many experienced men within his ranks, and all of them were trained to fire at least three volleys a minute. Your men are virgins to battle in the majority. Their only training was for a few minutes, and most of them have never fired a gun in their lives.”

  “We will do what needs to be done.”

  “I am not admonishing you. You’re a commander. Leaders motivate troops, but must deal in reality when talking amongst themselves. I talk to you alone, to speak words only you should hear. Your refugees, the foreigners, know only defeat, at the hands of similar regulars from their own country. Your only hope, for sure and steady hands, will be in the older natives of Saint-Antoine you convince to join you. Hopefully, some of them have seen action under Napoleon, the kings, or the revolutionaries. And that is a hope, not a certainty. Scramble for any advantage, Commander. This will not be an easy fight.”

  And today, behind the barricade, waiting for battle in the cold, white light of morning, were precious few recruits from Saint-Antoine, of any age.

  Jake had an idea of placing snipers in houses, but could not find any homeowners willing to take the risk. He was under strict orders not to alienate the neighborhood, so he did not force the issue. They had the barricade, but would it be enough?

  Franck spoke again, “Ben Franklin would show up at Versailles dressed like a farmer. He charmed everyone. He was Rousseau's new man, a sophisticated savage, the freedom-loving individual who has returned to nature. You took advantage of that, a little bit, didn’t you? With your stories of the frontier and the Indians and so on?”

  “Yes. I actually have no idea what sophisticated savagery entails. I suppose I treated everyone to my pretended version of it.”

  “Have you actually met any Indians?”

  “I am from Wellesley. It is as far from the frontier as one can get, and still keep one’s feet dry.”

  “Zut! I knew it!”

  “Truth be told, mon ami, I consider myself French. I wouldn’t return if my life depended on it. I can’t even remember the last time I wrote home.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, you sound like a native.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Like a native-born Parisian, maybe with a dash of Bretagne.”

  “Ah! It'll be fine, It'll be fine, It'll be fine

  Aristocrats to the lamp-post

  Ah! It'll be fine, It'll be fine, It'll be fine

  The aristocrats, we'll hang them!

  And when we’ve hung them all

  We'll stick a shovel up their arse!”

  The drums suddenly beat triple-time. From the corner, and without warning, trotted out at least a hundred soldiers, and the song died on the rebel’s lips. The soldiers ran to take up a three-row firing position across the entire width of the street - and half of Jake’s entire command fired at once without orders. Jake was immediately deafened. The others took the volley as a signal, and began firing as well, just with enough interval to render any shouted orders ineffective.

  Jake silently cursed. There had been no thought at all as to how orders would be conveyed once the shooting started. Apart from going to every man himself, or sending a messenger man-to-man to scream into deaf ears, Jake was at a loss. Still standing, he looked around at his men, as the battle began to rage in earnest. In spite of their brave song, he saw many nervous eyes. There was no yelling or screaming, just intense and quick action, albeit clumsy and untrained.

  Jake looked out, and saw the enemy had finalized their position. Perhaps ten of them were wounded or dead lying on the ground. Their first rank suddenly fired in unison. Like deadly insects, he heard the sound of musket balls snapping past him. It was the most intimidating sound he had ever heard. His first instinct was to drop to the ground, to get as far from those deadly bees as he possibly could. Instead, he closed his eyes. He took a moment to fight himself, to overcome, forcing himself to stand tall and in danger. He opened his eyes again and looked out forward. The second rank of soldiers advanced and fired. Two more of them fell. The third rank advanced even further and fired. One more went down. Squads of medics and stretcher bearers ran out to help the wounded. Jake saw a few of his own men on the ground, shot in the head or arms, caught trying to take a shot over the barricade. He also noticed many more were squatting completely behind the barricade, and making no move to load or take position to fire. The air was already thick with acrid smoke. The enemy was nearly obscured, even though they were closing quickly.

  The prostitute jumped on the barricade, her lips curled in a feral, hateful snarl. She
lifted her skirt to the soldiers in contempt, her screamed Poissard insult lost to the tumult. The next volley riddled her body. She fell, and collapsed to the mud of the torn-up street, her broken limbs at impossible angles. She was a pile of blood and innards, hair tufts and cloth, like an alley refuse pile shared by a tailor and a butcher.

  Another man fell, writhing on the ground in agony. Jake saw others moving away from the barricade at a crouched run. Franck was yelling something at him, but he couldn’t hear it clear enough to make out its meaning. As they advanced, the enemy was now aiming and shooting at individual targets. More of Jake’s men fled or were down - wounded, dead or terrified, he couldn’t tell. Hale men bent over wounded, slowing their volume of fire even further. Franck was trying to pull Jake behind the barricade, but he resisted it. He needed to see what was going on, so his mind could work, so he could come up with a plan. He could almost see defeat rolling out toward him like a dark ocean wave.

  Jake took out his pistol. If something wasn’t done quickly, they would be fighting hand-to-hand over the barricade. With his pistol’s quick action and twenty-round capacity, Jake outgunned everyone, at least at close range. Once he could shoot effectively, he might be able to turn back the charge himself.

  Franck started as if hit with a club. The back of his head flew off into pieces, like a china saucer of tomato soup landing on tile. He fell backwards, and his arms bent at the elbows, pointing his hands straight into the air. His eyes were open, vacant and completely red. A pool of crimson quickly spread from his head, as if it held gallons of blood. Jake bent over him in disbelief. He held Franck’s body, totally oblivious to the battle around him.