The Lightstep

by John Dickinson

  'Good, then.'

  A whisper, hoarse and urgent, from the upstream side of the bastion.

  'The boat! Look out, lads! The boat!'

  A sudden flurry broke out on the bastion top. Down in the river, the boat patrol was approaching. Now that it was dark, it was safe for the French to put armed men on the river, rowing up and down outside the walls to guard against any attempt by the besiegers to cross over the river by stealth – and to catch anyone who tried to leave the city without permission. Men hurried to the downstream side of the bastion and began to haul up the rope.

  'Leave it!' hissed the bastion commander. 'Leave it, and get your heads down!'

  As they ducked, he stood, and showed himself calmly at the wall.

  Crouching at his feet, Wéry looked up at him. He saw the man's face turn slowly, following the swift progress of the boat down-river. He saw the reflection of distant muzzle-flare wink in the man's eye. Silence had fallen on the platform. Wéry bent his head, listening.

  (Drone, drone, drone and Thump. And crash. Goodnight, Mainz! said the guns.)

  And another noise, much closer: something on the river. An oar, washing through the water. Wéry crouched lower. In the dimness he could see his own hand in front of him. There were white marks on the skin. He knew them well. They seemed to float now, in the grisly light. They floated like dreams before his eyes.

  The creak of oars. Muttered voices from the boat. Would they see the rope? The rope must be a dark line, still and quiet in the downstream crook of the bastion. It would be far less easy to see than a bustle of men and something disappearing furtively up the wall. But the current would carry the boat to the downstream side. They would come in close, because the flow was slower under the bastions. They would want to row upstream right against the wall. Where were they?

  It was cold. His heart was beating. It would be colder still in the water.

  God! That one was close! It must have hit less than fifty paces away. He had not heard it coming. He had felt it, though. He had felt the city tremble as it hit. Was that why he was going? This was a hopeless mission. Hope? Meaningless. Everything had been betrayed. Brussels was betrayed, and Liège was fallen, and Paris was sick and vengeful – a tyranny worse than the one it had destroyed. And here in Mainz there was tyranny too, where there should have been liberty and justice. There were dead on the cobbles and dung in the streets and people who had been driven out like animals to starve beyond the walls. Dreams were nightmares now. The white marks on his hands were the scars of his rage.

  But it was not meaningless. Not yet. There was still a way to go, into the river and beyond. There were still things to do, against the men who had stolen the dream.

  What else was there to live by?

  Wash, wash, wash, went the oars on the river, diminishing. The boat had begun its long labour upstream. The crew had not seen the rope. The river beckoned to him.

  'Maximilian,' he whispered. 'Thank you.' And he gripped his friend's arm. 'Good luck.'

  'Good luck.'

  Then Wéry was standing, kicking off his battered shoes, shaking off his greatcoat and feeling the cold touch of the air on his skin. Maximilian Jürich held the rope out for him. He gripped it, passed it around his back, and scrambled to the lip of the parapet. There he teetered, facing in, leaning backward until the rope bit into his back and wrists and his feet were braced against the stone.

  'Quickly!' someone hissed. He did not know who. They were all dark shadows now – the shapes of head and shoulders, flat against the night sky. He could not look for footholds. His bare feet felt their way down the stone. White light flickered along the wall. (God! What an irony if a cannon ball struck him now!) But nothing happened. He did not even hear the passage of the shot. He was nearing the water. Here it was – leaping up to lick at his heel like a ghostly hound, wet and cold. He felt for a foothold and did not find one. Deeper, maybe. Carry on down. His feet slipped on weeds and suddenly he was up to his armpits in wet, cold river, and bruising his shoulder at the same time against the wall. Ugh! His feet found the muddy bed. He stood there, chest deep, holding himself up with the aid of the rope. He was already shaking. The Rhine sucked at his body.

  Goodnight, Mainz! bellowed the guns. That was the Empire, firing. That was everything he had first taken up arms to fight: privilege and aristocracy and the smothering hold of church and feudal dues; the power that had once been his enemy. That was where he was going now.

  Over there the gunners must see little of their target – perhaps just the crown of spires, sprawling under the afterglow of sunset, the burst of an incendiary shell like a sudden star, and the occasional white flare as the garrison fired back on its tormentors. They would hear nothing but their own batteries: not the crash of shot landing; the weary jokes or cries; the sobbing of those who had already passed so many nights like this and could not bear one more. From over there, Mainz would endure its hell in silence. And they would work calmly, by lamplight and muzzle-flash, taking their bearings from the stakes and markers, bringing more ammunition, handling the matches carefully in the dark. There would be no hurry. A city is hard to miss, and it cannot run away.

  Goodnight, Mainz!

  The flashes plagued his vision. He could not see the line of the islands that Maximilian had pointed out to him. He could not see the watchfires. He could only guess the direction to the Erzberg camp. Ask for an officer called Adelsheim. If you find him . . .

  'Adelsheim.' That was all he had.

  Maximilian might be looking down on him from the battlement. Probably he was, waiting for the moment when the tell-tale rope could be hauled back to safety. But Maximilian could not help him any more. He could give no more directions. He might as well be on the moon. Down here there was nothing but darkness and gunfire, the coldness of the water, and the name.

  The name might mean anything: any future at all.

  Or none at all.

  Now, the river.

  PART II:

  THE SISTER

  May 1797

  II

  A State of Germany

  Peace came after four years, and a string of disasters for the Empire at the hands of a General Bonaparte far away in Italy. And the early days of peace found Michel Wéry once again at a river bank, with only the word 'Adelsheim' to guide him. But this river was just a muddy stream running in the bottom of a wooded valley. And the word was not a man any more.

  Nor had anyone directed him, this time. Only his own conscience had nagged and prodded him to make his way here along the forest tracks of Germany. At each turning and mudhole and rain-shower, it had grumbled at him: Well, if you don't do it, who will? And when?

  He rode a handsome, dark-brown horse. On his head was a tall military cap of green and black, with a white plume and a trailing wing of green cloth. Under his greatcoat his uniform was green and white. His moustache was trimmed to the fierce curl of a light cavalryman, and a long, curved sabre hung from his saddle.

  Only his eyes were unchanged: sunk, and rimmed with brown skin. They brooded on the water.

  There was a ford here, and in the black mud at the water's edge there was a stone, covered in a shroud of moss. He dismounted to pull the moss away. Beneath it he found, as he had expected, the letter A, cut in deep lines that were packed with dirt.

  A for Adelsheim.

  It was an estate marker. But here, in the heart of the Empire, it was also a frontier marker. On this unimpressive bank the territory of the Prince-Bishop of Erzberg ended. On the other, a different ruler held sway: a man who owned no lord but God and the distant Emperor.

  Adelsheim! declared the revealed dirt importantly, and touched the emptiness in his heart.

  Wéry straightened. The estate from which the Adelsheim family took its name appeared to be just one village and one house, sitting glumly together in a mile-long cleft between two great wooded hills. He could see all the way across it from where he stood. The brown fragments of a small castle stood abandoned on a
shoulder of rock above the valley. And his horse, with the callous disregard of an invading army, was already crossing the border. It was standing in mid-stream, head turned back towards him, as if wondering what he was waiting for.

  He waded after it, scolding. The horse allowed him to remount, lifting its head as he took the reins. He took a moment to pat its neck and speak to it, not because it was misbehaving, but because he did not want to go up to the house to say what he had to say.

  At length he nudged it to the far bank, and presumed to invade another soil.

  He passed fallow and barns, small herds and a trough that leaned so drunkenly it could hardly serve its purpose any more. He passed a gang of peasant men carrying axes and wearing broad hats. Some were in clogs and some in bare feet, he saw. There was a woman drawing water from the stream, and a ragged and barefooted child watching over a flock of ducks. They stopped and stared at him as he rode by.

  The cottages had a mean and dilapidated look. None could have had more than two rooms. Several roofs were in poor repair. There was no sign of new work here, not a water channel or a granary, just as there was no sign of clover crop or any other modern farming method in the fields. The place smelled of dung and damp and wood smoke.

  The schoolhouse was empty. The children would be off at their chores. The schoolmaster would be out working his furrows, or doing whatever else he did to supplement his living. And there was no one to tell pupils or schoolmaster or parents what good there was to be had from education, which they would never gain by drudgery in their fields.

  The watermill was a sad thing: broken paddles and an illfitting sluice-gate, the roof sunk and ragged, and no doubt teeming with rats. What did the landlord charge his peasants for using that?

  There was no sign of life at the church.

  Disappointment grew on him as he passed across the estate, like the chilly wind that warned him of rain. Neglect met his eyes wherever he looked. The Imperial Knights were famous for lacking interest in their subjects. And it seemed that the Knight of Adelsheim was one with his kind, whatever the views of his second son had been.

  So, my friend, he thought. Is this the home you spoke of fondly? Is this where you were raised, in your little cot of privilege?

  Now the house was coming into view again, as the road curved by a grove of broad-leafed trees. It was a square block, three stories high, perched on a low rise with a steep, wooded slope at its back. The porch was supported by classic columns. On each side of the door three tall windows stared solemnly down across the bottom of the valley. The windows were stripped of their paintwork by the weather. There were dark streaks on the wall below a bad gutter. The roof, missing tiles and lead, sagged like the back of a horse. Here was more neglect, and some shortage of means too, no doubt. But in Wéry's eyes the neglect of the house did not excuse what he had seen on the estate. Here, sullen in its dignity, was Privilege again. He met it wherever he went. The Knight of Adelsheim was lord of his tiny land, in this land of little lords. And Wéry did not doubt that he wrung his tired peasantry for every crust they had; the emptier a knight's pockets, the stiffer his neck with pride.

  'The guillotine loved stiff necks when I was in Paris, sir,' he murmured. 'And I do not love aristocrats myself.'

  He spoke aloud to steady himself, for his misgivings were growing. The house hulked before him like a fat, grey gentleman sitting for his portrait, ignoring his presence. Smoke was rising from the chimneys. The shutters were open. The family was here. Now he must announce himself to them.

  There was nobody at the front of the building, where two short flights of steps led up to the door. Only two great, fat angel faces, carved above the stone lintel, looked down upon him. Their faces were streaked with discoloration, and on one plump cheek there hung a trail of bird-dropping, exactly as if the face had wept a filthy tear that morning, and no one had bothered to wipe it away.

  Rain had begun to fall, out of the yellow-grey sky. It was falling in grey veils that misted all the hills. It damped his shoulders, and ran wet-cold fingers into the cracks between his gloves and sleeves. He jumped from his horse at the very foot of the steps. Of course there was no one to take the reins.

  'Stay,' he told it. And then, as it looked reproachful: 'Stay, damn you!'

  Up the steps he went, leaping in his great riding boots, two and three at a time. At the door he removed the plumed hussar's cap from his head, unbuttoned his greatcoat to show his green and white cavalry uniform, and hammered with his cold fist at the boards of the door.

  He waited. After a while he beat upon it again.

  He was about to knock a third time when he heard footsteps.

  They came (clip, clip, clip,) across a stone floor within. He waited for the door to open. It did not. Whoever it was must be hovering just inside, as if they could not really believe they had heard knocking, or that a man could be out here, sodden and shivering waiting to be admitted.

  Impatiently, he banged on the wood once more.

  It opened immediately, onto a shadowy hall with high ceilings. A short man in a frock coat and a powdered wig stood in the doorway.

  'I am Captain Michel Wéry'

  When that brought no response, Wéry added:'Please tell the Knight that I have come to see him. I am a friend of his son Albrecht. I have the gravest possible news.'

  The servant stood blinking at him. He wore no livery, so he must rank highly among the house staff. He would already have understood that Wéry was a foreigner. Now, behind that toad-like face, he 'was trying to decide what to do. Wéry did not seem to fit into any of the convenient categories of persons known and unknown, admissible and inadmissible, that a servant of this house was accustomed to dealing with. The enslaved mind needed cues, clues of standing in the orders of the privileged, before it could select the routine to follow.

  'I am Captain Michel Wéry, of the Regiment of Hussars of His Highness the Prince-Bishop of Erzberg. I wish to see the Knight at once.'

  Hussars. He jerked the lapel of his greatcoat to show his white, braided tunic and the green fur-lined jacket that hung from his shoulder. And he stared at the little man with all the haughtiness he could muster.

  After all, no officer was admitted to the Prince's hussars unless all four of his grandparents at least had their own noble pedigree. (Or unless, for some mysterious reason, he enjoyed the especial favour of the Prince.)

  It should have been enough. Surely it should have been. But he saw the servant's brow furrow more deeply.

  'The Knight does not receive visitors,' the man said. His voice was plaintive as if he felt that any gentleman from Erzberg, even a foreign one, should have known better than to put him in such a dilemma.

  'It is most urgent,' Wéry insisted. 'It concerns his son.'

  The servant licked his lips. 'I will see if the Lady is able to receive you.'

  The Lady? The wife? The mother?

  Lady Adelsheim! She was famous for her wit, and her forcefulness. Even in the camps of the hussars Wéry heard about her. He had no wish to meet her. He would infinitely have preferred to deliver his news to a man, who in the crisis would act with a man's restraint. What was the matter with Albrecht's father?

  This might be so much more difficult. 'Will the Knight not . . .?' he began.

  Plainly, from the servant's look, the Knight would not.

  'Very good,' Wéry said in resignation. 'If you would please announce me.'

  The servant was still standing in the doorway. He was waiting for something. After a moment Wéry realized what it must be.

  'I do not have a card,' he said. He saw the man's eyebrows shoot up.

  'I have told you my name and my business,' he snarled. 'Show me in!'

  And he was shown in, to a large, elaborately tiled hall with pillars and an elusive smell. He stamped gracelessly across it in the wake of the frock coat. His agitation was growing, and because of it he had become angry as well – angry at his own posturing and the other man's deference.

 
Man was born free! he thought, as he handed over his coat, hat and gloves. And no race exhibited their chains with more pride than the Germans; and no German more than a servant! They had their brains, as well as their sense of status, from their masters, and would never think for themselves. So ask, and they would refuse you; but demand, and they would obey. Try showing them that you considered them an equal, speak informally, joke with them, and you would be met with blank, affronted looks. Call them 'Citizen' and they would be horrified!

  The servant opened the door to a small waiting-parlour to one side of the hall.

  And there He was.

  There he was:Albrecht von Adelsheim, in a full-length portrait to one side of an empty fireplace. In that unremarkable little room he seemed to glow from the dark canvas.

  His stance was formal, his uniform so neat and white it might never have seen a day's campaign. But it was the true Albrecht. His big, liquid smile was on his lips, beaming into the room. His eyes shone with laughter. They mocked the vain insistence of portraiture that its subjects should show poise and calm. And his eyes were on Wéry as he came through the door, as if he had just laughed that laugh and said – as he had done so many times – Hey, Michel!

  'Hey, Michel, did you ever look at someone? No, but truly look?'

  Or: 'Hey, Michel! Still in bed, you hound?'

  Oh yes! When he had been half-dead with sleep and drink and misery: 'Hey, Michel! Still in bed, you hound? Mother of God, you look worse than when we pulled you out of the river! You can swim in water, my friend, but it's harder to swim in wine. It's the wine that swims in you, ha ha . . .!

  '. . . Listen to me. I said listen to me . . . Citizen Wéry! You will please stand to attention! I am about to recite your precious Rights of Man. Very well then, you. may lie to attention. Hands by your sides, sir – not over your ears. Ready? "The aim of every political association is the preservation of the natural and imprescriptible Rights of Man. These rights are Liberty, Property, Safety and Resistance to Oppression. "Am I correct? Good. So where does it say you have the right to lie down when I am talking to you . . .?'