The Lightstep

by John Dickinson

  Could it be true? His faith in his work had fallen, but had it really fallen so far? From the corner of his eye he searched the Frenchman's face. Lanard was no longer looking at him, but away into the air.

  'And then that ape Augereau went and did the deed anyway,' sighed Lanard. 'Troops on the streets. Out with the royalists. Long live the Republic once more.'

  Certainly there had been a coup in Paris. There would have been months of tension before that. Of course Hoche would have been caught up in it. Yes, it was plausible. It was more than plausible. It was absolutely the way things happened in Paris – except that Hoche had not spilled blood in pursuit of his ambition. He had left that to someone else. And out of that confusion he,Wéry had spun a lie, and nearly sent the city into a hopeless war.

  And that was the reason there was no news. That was why his message from the Rhine would not come! Because, seen from the Rhine, there had been nothing to report! There had been no movements, no preparations, nothing worth the risk of communicating across the river! All the sources from Wetzlar had told him nothing was happening. He had not believed them. And in the absence of the message from the Rhine, he had read only the most sinister possibilities.

  Resign? Just let him get out of this coach, and he would resign at once!

  'So – your General had a chance of greatness, and did not take it,' said Lady Machting. 'Did he regret it?'

  'In truth I do not know, my Lady. For when I returned to Wetzlar he was already sick, and within a few days he was dead. His surgeon says it was a suffocating illness. I have heard others claim it was poison. On what evidence, I do not know. But I suspect that what you say is also close to the truth. Truly, for a few days, he could have been the Saviour of the Republic. Certainly he had that ambition. But he had not enough ambition to pay the price that would make it his. He was disappointed in himself, and disappointment sickens, I think.'

  'I am so sorry,' said the Machting daughter. 'And I am sorry for you too, Major, for I suppose you had high hopes for him, and for yourself too.'

  'You are right, Lady Elisabeth. But in the event, no, I would not have wished to see shooting in a city, or for him to have climbed to power over Parisian corpses. Nevertheless he is a loss. He leaves a young wife – a German lady, in fact – as well as those of us who knew him. Ah, there is no use regretting. But we lose generals too easily. Our heroes fall like wheat. And mostly it is our own fault.' The smile was back again, like a mask. 'Eighty-four we have sent to the guillotine since the war began. Perhaps, if he had not resigned, Hoche would have gone that way. Perhaps Augereau will yet – though I do not think so.'

  'Eighty-four!' cried Lady Adelsheim. 'To say nothing of Louis d'Orleans, Madame Roland, Danton, Robespierre and all the rest. Truly, sir, I find that your Revolution consumes itself!'

  'Almost as fast as it consumes everything about it,' murmured Wéry.

  'Ah, that is the war,' said Lanard.

  'War may be waged in different ways,' said Wéry. 'Imperial officers may be court-martialled if they allow their soldiers to plunder.'

  He knew he was sounding graceless but he could not help it.

  The discovery of his failure – yet another failure – had shaken him.

  'And yet I do not think they are altogether without sin. But if I, an officer of the Republic, am starving because the Republic cannot feed me, and if my soldiers bring me food that they have found, shall I eat it first and arrest them afterwards? Or shall I arrest them first and carry on starving? The miseries of the war lie at the door of those who incited it – Citizen Wéry'

  Wéry felt as if he had been stroked with a hot iron. Those who incited it – Citizen Wéry. Shadows tumbled into his head – ugly memories of Paris, and close, hot rooms crammed with faces, and his own voice speaking words that had then seemed so good. Was that what the man meant? What did he know?

  Hadn't he done enough since, to bury all that behind him?

  He glared at the Frenchman. The smile broadened.

  'Now – if my Lady will forgive me, and since we are talking of such things, I must counter-attack. You, sir, were one of us. You were a rebel with Vonck in Brabant. You fought the Austrians at Turnhout. You were one of the international delegates who came to Paris. I believe you even addressed the Jacobin club on behalf of your countrymen – a thing I can hardly claim for myself. Now here you are, an obedient servant of the Empire, struggling – vainly I may say – to contain the forces of liberty that once you espoused. How were you suborned?'

  'Suborned?'

  God! He could wring the man's neck! Or at the very least, challenge him!

  'Come,' said Lanard. 'I did not mean to insult you. To be corrupt is to be human, I think, and often preferable to the alternative. As I believe you saw "The Incorruptible" – Robespierre himself – it is a thing you too should understand.'

  'Sir!' said Wéry. 'I think you presume on your status as a guest here!'

  He fought to control himself, aware of the women in the coach, and of the eyes of Lady Adelsheim fixed on him in cold surprise.

  '. . . But be that as it may,' he managed, 'I tell you that it is a question not of whether I have been "suborned" or "corrupted", but of what has corrupted your revolution so far – so very far – that its word has proved utterly different from its deed, and that those who were most friendly to its ideals – and not I alone – should become its most constant enemies!'

  'Ah, so it is anger,' said the Frenchman smoothly. 'My General too was an angry man, although not in your way. He used to bite his knuckles, sometimes. I see from the marks on your hand that you may know what that means. But when the time came for calm, he could be calm, and so he brought peace to the Vendee when no one else would have done . . .

  'But let me make two observations, Wéry. First, to block your charge, let me answer that a revolution is made of many voices, and that many different things will be said before a course is decided upon. This is plain. But also – and here I turn your flank – that your view of us has led you to serve the very opposite of what I know you believed. Will you tell me that is not corruption?'

  The carriage had passed the gates of the town. Now it turned to the right, heading back along the line of the wall towards the hussar barracks. A few minutes more, and this impossible conversation would be over. He had only to hold out.

  'I believe,' he said, 'that it would be better if we did not speak about this further in this company. If, at another time, you choose to repeat your words . . .'

  But now the counter-attack was supported with heavy artillery. For the Lady Adelsheim broke her silence at last.

  'No, sir!' she exclaimed. 'I declare this is an interesting discussion after all! Since my cousin the Prince chooses to increase his power in the face of all good counsel, and then uses that power for war and misery, are not all who choose to serve him condemned with him?'

  'My Lady,' said Wéry desperately. 'Another time I shall endeavour to satisfy you. But we have almost reached my quarters, and to answer you I must keep your carriage standing in the street longer than you may desire.'

  'The carriage may drive around again,' said Lady Adelsheim. 'And it is inexcusable, Major, to dismiss yourself before I am finished. Come. You will no doubt tell me that you face a choice of two evils. But my son has been crushed between your evils, and I wish to ask you why any man should adhere to either.'

  Wéry spread his hands, helplessly. He saw the coachman flick his whip gently, impelling the carriage on past the barrack gates. He knew Lady Adelsheim was watching him, preparing her next salvo. And the Frenchman was listening, with that maddening, amused smile on his face.

  'My Lady,' he began. 'I too grieved and continue to grieve for the loss of your son, who was the first and best friend to me in all Erzberg . . .'

  'Indeed? And you suppose this will excuse the choices you have made?'

  'My Lady . . .'

  XXI

  The Maimed Colossus

  News reached Erzberg that evening. A
treaty had been signed at last between the Empire and the Republic.

  No one seemed to know what the treaty contained. Everyone assumed that Liège and the Austrian territories in the Netherlands had been surrendered to France and that the French would withdraw in Italy. There was no word on how far the Emperor had honoured his pledge to 'the integrity of the German body', or what would happen to the Rhineland in particular. It was said that the French and Austrians would hold a congress at Rastatt with the princes of Germany to discuss the peace, but it was not clear what there was to discuss.

  Bells were rung again in the city. Rumours hissed along the corridors of the Celesterburg palace. In the Saint Lucia barracks Wéry dismissed Asmus and went down to the coffee house Stocke, to comfort himself with stimulant and the smell of tobacco.

  Heroes fell like wheat, he thought, staring into the little black pool of the cup before him. Still the world longed for the next to appear.

  Hoche had been a hero to his people. He could have become a saviour, if he had been prepared to pay the price. But because the price was to be the blood of his own people he did not pay it.

  Now they would wait for another saviour to come.

  If Hoche could rise from grenadier to be Minister of War, if Bonaparte, a captain of artillery, could bring an empire to its knees, then anything was possible. He must remember that. Failures did not matter. Defeats were only to be overcome. What mattered was absolute, single-minded, purity of . . .

  'There he is!'

  A crowd of white uniforms surrounded him. Heiss was there, and with him was Skatt-Hesse of the Erzberg regiment, and a number of other captains and majors of infantry. Their expressions were ugly.

  Heiss leaned forward, planting both hands flat on the table.

  'That Frenchman. Is he a friend of yours?'

  'Not in the least,' said Wéry coldly.

  'Is he not, now? So why is the palace saying you were the one who requested his pass?'

  The palace? God damn it!

  Wéry looked into Heiss's red face. He wondered if the whole world was tumbling around his ears today.

  'They're fools,' he said.

  'Come, that won't do!' said Skatt-Hesse. 'That man damned well crucified the army this afternoon. Did you or did you not get them to let him in?'

  The wood of the partition was hard against the back of his head, and his cheek muscles felt like wood, too.

  'I did.'

  'Damnation!' cried Heiss. 'Why in heaven?'

  'Reasons of state.'

  'Don't give me that! That's clerk's talk!'

  'It is true, however. And I regret to tell you that I cannot say any more. If you doubt it, ask yourself why His Highness did not revoke the pass.'

  Skatt-Hesse adopted a look of contempt.

  'Well, he could hardly have done that after it had been issued, could he? Not with the Chapter and the Estates and the War Commission all panting to hear what the fellow said.'

  'I cannot help what he had to say. But yes, I did help with his papers. That is all.'

  'All!' roared Heiss. 'If they take that man's word over ours, we'll go down, and you know that! See here, Wéry! There've been times I thought pulling you out of the Rhine was the best thing we ever did. Now I wish we'd just pushed you straight back in. At least we'd have to deal with fewer lies!'

  The others crowded in behind him.

  'Did you feel fine, Wéry riding in the Adelsheim carriage like a lickspittle?'

  'You can be a knave or an idiot as you please, Wéry. But it has to be one or the other!'

  'And don't talk to us about honour. If we hear any more we might be sick . . .'

  'Enough,' said Skatt-Hesse coldly. 'Let's leave him.'

  They turned and began to crowd back to the door of the coffee house. Wéry watched them. His cheeks were flaming. He saw the set of their shoulders, the shape of their ears, the lamplight glinting on the brassy epaulettes. Their boots had a thin patina of the dust from the streets. And if he hesitated for an instant they would think him a coward.

  'Gentlemen!' he called, keeping his voice as steady as he could.

  Two or three of them turned at once. They had been expecting this. Their eyes were blank – masks of contempt. Wéry rose, awkwardly, in the narrow space between bench and table.

  'Gentlemen,' he said, pitching his voice to carry clearly across the room. 'In the space of a minute you have called me, I think, a clerk, a lickspittle, an idiot, a knave, and a liar. Am I right?'

  None of their faces changed. None of them would draw back from it.

  'I am a foreigner and I have my views,' he continued. 'But I hold a commission from your Prince, and I think you will permit me the customary recourse. I am very much afraid that I am going to have to kill somebody.'

  And he could not draw back either. He was committed. And he did not care. He only wanted to damage something, or somebody.

  Still they were waiting for him. He drew breath.

  'If you would please see that I am notified which of you . . .'

  'That is enough, gentlemen,' said another voice.

  From behind a wooden partition in the corner of the room rose the vast head and shoulders of the Count Balcke-Horneswerden.

  He was wrapped in a heavy cloak, as if he were cold, and he was alone. Perhaps he too had been brooding by himself over a cooling cup of coffee all this while. But there was nothing mournful about him now. He leaned over the partition. His skin was dark and his eyes black as the mouths of cannon.

  'Gather round,' he said softly. 'I do not wish to shout.'

  They shuffled closer to him.

  In the same low tone, a rumble that was almost a mutter, he said,'Gentlemen are gentlemen wherever they go. But when they wear my Prince's uniform they are to be soldiers first and last. Their lives are at His Highness's disposal and no one else's. Does anyone disagree? No? Good. Now, I believe some question has arisen over the commitment of one of you. Let me settle it. His Highness has chosen Major Wéry to perform certain very exacting duties. It is our duty to support him as we may. If you ask me why His Highness has so chosen, I will tell you that he was so advised by myself . . .'

  He paused, and took a fresh grip on the partition before him.

  'I so advised His Highness because I believed Major Wéry would be useful to us in ways that no other man in Erzberg could. If asked today I would so advise again.

  'And I would also advise that when the Pope, and the Emperor, every last prince in Germany, and every one of you, gentlemen, are ready to knuckle under to the French, this man Wéry will still be fighting them. This is my opinion, which you will please to value above your own.

  'Now. You will have duties to attend to. If you think you have not, I can persuade you otherwise. Thank you. Wéry, wait a moment.'

  The officers dispersed silently. Wéry was alone with the man he had betrayed. His body had locked itself into an attitude of rigid attention.

  Balcke leaned his elbows on the partition.

  'Now, Wéry. Just one question, and by God I want the truth. You said you brought that man here for reasons of state. Did the Prince tell you to do so?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Did he know, or did anyone close to him know, that you were going to bring the man here?'

  'No, sir.'

  Balcke let out his breath. 'If that's right, then I may beat this thing yet. So, you were playing one of your own little games, were you? I hope you're proud of yourself.'

  'I'm not, sir. And I would like to apol—'

  'Don't give me that! Don't make me think that after all you are one of these spineless, over-the-shoulder back-lookers who gets all tearful about what they've done! See here, Wéry. I'm as guilty as hell of the things they say I did. But the only thing I'll regret is that I didn't handle it differently when the story first came out in front of His Highness. I should have made a clean breast of it there on the bastion. But that damned Italian had my goat, and so I lied in my Prince's face. None of that changes the fact tha
t the Prince needs me to make sure the army is there for him when it has to be. And he needs you to tip him the warning of when that time will be. So . . .' he said, jabbing a thick finger towards Wéry's face. '. . . You may make your nest in this city. You may even play your games if you have to. But you may not kill my officers. And you may not get yourself killed either. Is that clear?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Hah. You'll find staying alive harder than you think, after the things you said just now. My advice is, keep to the barracks, unless you have some specific and immediate duty that takes you outside. The hussars may not like you, but they won't like the other regiments picking fights with their uniform either. They'll close ranks around you, unless you give them a reason not to. You understand?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Good. And I'll make sure that old woman Altmantz understands too.'

  His eyes held Wéry's for a long moment. Then, in a slightly altered tone, he said, 'Now, man, what's biting you?'

  Wéry drew breath. Twice today he had almost challenged someone to a duel. It was as if something inside him was screaming to find a way out of what he was doing – even at the cost of death, wounding or disgrace.

  'I – don't like this post, sir. And I don't think I'm doing it very well.'

  'That's damned rubbish! You do good work.'

  'I doubt if Bergesrode would agree with you, sir.'

  'Bergesrode? Bergesrode didn't appoint you. The Prince did. He and I got drunk together and decided it would be a good idea. We still think it's a good idea. And I'll tell you, if you didn't realize, that Altmantz nearly resigned when we foisted you on his precious hussars. But I spoke with him and changed his mind for him. So don't worry about Bergesrode. If he's bothered, it'll be about something else. He's too close to the Ingolstadt set, that one. Ultramontanism, the ties of Rome, peg everything back to the Middle Ages – all that. A very uncomfortable position, when you've a man like His Highness as your master. And now there's no threat of war to bring the Ingolstadt set behind the Prince, of course they'll fall out. That's all it will be.'