The Lightstep

by John Dickinson

  There had been women who had watched Him die like this, just as she was watching Him now. There had been Mary his mother. And there had been Mary of Magdalene, a younger woman, fallen in the eyes of her people, who had come to watch her hope extinguished on the cross. And now there was Maria von Adelsheim, also young, also fallen, looking up at the head. At the man on the cross, and the man on the hearth.

  'Before this,' the man said suddenly, 'there was nothing but the war. Now there is the war, and there is also you.'

  He stated it as if it were a choice, and one that he regretted.

  'The war made it possible for me to come,' she said.

  Then she wished that she had said for me to come to you. He nodded. And he did not ask her what she meant.

  'To enter paradise, we must destroy it,' he said.

  The war had made it possible for her to come. It had brought them together. And now, or very soon, it would tear them apart. And it would tear all Erzberg apart too. How many Michels and Marias were there in the city, talking or thinking these things with one another? But they had been given no choice. He had chosen, and so had she. Why should they pity themselves? She remembered the face of the dead Frenchman, the eyes of the doctor's wife: How could you? The man in agony on the wall had sacrificed only himself. But the man at the grate must condemn them all. No, he was not Christ, and she must not think it. It was blasphemous and stupid. And she was not Mary Magdalene.

  But there had been another woman in the story, a woman who had sent to her husband as he sat in judgement.

  The man at the grate glanced at one more paper. His eyes followed a line, and then a few more. Then he shrugged and fed it carefully into the fire. It was an act curiously like washing his hands.

  She drew breath and checked herself. She felt her hands grip upon her knees.

  'Michel.'

  He paused at the sound of his name.

  'There are . . . innocent people in the city,' she said. 'Even now.'

  For a moment he was still, staring at the air in front of him. Then he said, 'I know.'

  Suddenly, angrily, he snatched a paper from the floor and scrunched it into a ball, which he jammed into the low flames. For a moment it sulked there, still obstinately paper in the glowing mass. Then with a bright flare of flame, it changed into an instant of glory. But already Michel was gathering up the other papers, balling them with savage movements of his fists, and adding them to the fire. One by one they went and the flutter of the flames grew into a brief roar. Maria rose from her place, took the face of Christ from the wall and offered it to him. That went, too, frame and all. On his hands and knees he watched it until the light wood caught and the face began to blacken with oil-smoke. Then he rose to his feet.

  For an instant they looked at each other, either side of the hearth. Then – and she never remembered who moved first – they stepped towards one another, and his arms were around her neck, and hers were around his chest. And his ribs were strong as oak beneath his tunic, and she put her head to his breast and heard the tap, tap of his heart against her ear.

  'Oh,' she whispered. And she could not say my darling, or sweetheart, or my dear, because she had never used those words before. She said,'Whatever you do. Whatever you do. I will be as close as I can. I promise.'

  'Yes,' he said, and bowed his head so that his cheek rested on her hair.

  'There may be a chance,' he said. 'There may yet be.'

  'Hush,' she answered. 'You should sleep. You should sleep if you possibly can.'

  But still she clung to him, and the thumping of her heart and of his seemed far louder to her than the distant cannon from the wall.

  XXXVI

  Before the Doors

  From the Bamberg Gate Wéry looked out into the dawn. The night had been paling steadily for the last hour. Now the lines of the world could be seen again, colourless under the sky.

  Some three hundred paces away across the field a long earthwork had been thrown up. Over the rim of the brown wall poked a line of gun-muzzles. He swung his field glass along the row, noting the size of the bore and the carriages – big pieces, all of them. He counted twelve. A similar work had been built to his left, opposite the north-east bastion. And there again there were heavy cannon, although from this angle he could not count them easily. Say, twelve again. Further to left and right more batteries had been constructed – field guns this time, he thought: six– and eight-pounders, ready to pepper the defences and bombard the town. But it was opposite the breach, his weakest point, that the enemy had deployed their greatest strength.

  He brought his telescope back to focus on the siege guns. There was something almost peaceful about that cold row of heavy muzzles: those little black 'o's that cooed silently as he swept his glass along them. Death, they said. Death. There is nothing to do any more.

  Here, then, was the reality of the message from Maximilian Jürich, which he had fed onto the fire last night. The Army of Germany had been reinforced with siege guns. Here they were. The message had not stopped them from coming. Nothing he or anyone else could have done would have stopped them. And nothing the city gunners had done last night had prevented them from taking position.

  'That's where we were firing, over there,' said an officer. 'By the farm. You can see the ground's torn up with shot.'

  'That's where the lights were,' someone answered him. 'We saw them.'

  'Decoys, then. We've wasted a night's worth of powder, that's all.'

  Only grumbles answered this.

  'They've trenched the road, look.'

  Wéry looked, and raised his glass again. Yes, there were low earthworks opposite the gate, further off, but still within midrange for the city guns. There was a battery of field guns there, and infantry. Further away still, a mass of cavalry – a regiment at least – was circling into position beside the road.

  'They fear a sortie,' said a voice near him. That was the country gentleman from Zerbach.

  'They don't fear it,' said another, gloomily. 'They just want to be ready for it if it comes.'

  'Where's old Uhnen, anyway? Shouldn't he be here?'

  'Ssh! Haven't you heard?'

  The voices dropped to whispers. Wéry ignored them. Softly, he closed his telescope.

  The contempt of it was staggering. He remembered, years ago, watching from a church tower in Mainz as the Prussians had begun to dig their siege lines. They had started well out of cannon shot from the walls, with long circling earthworks to protect their positions. They had pushed the garrison back in from the outer villages and works. And day after day they had dug their way forward, in zigzag trenches, to a line two to three hundred yards short of the main defences. They had sited their batteries on the heights and had begun the bombardment in earnest. And then they had dug forward again, aiming to build new battery sites within fifty paces of the walls, from which their guns could pound the defences at close range until they crumbled.

  This enemy was bothering with none of that. Augereau knew the town was held not by twenty thousand regulars but by only a few thousand ill-trained militia. He had thrown his main batteries well forward, shrugging his shoulders at the risk of cannon shot from the walls. A single low bank of earth trailed backwards from each enemy position, presumably covering a shallow trench in which people and supplies could be brought forward in some shelter. As for preparations against a sortie . . .

  'Guns ready, sir,' came the call from the bastion door, behind and below.

  'Tell them to wait,' he murmured.

  He measured the distances with his eye. The batteries were closer to the gate than to their reinforcements, certainly. A running man could be on them in minutes. But the field battery and the infantry dug in opposite the gate would have to be attacked as well. And that farm was a strong point. He would have to get a sizeable force out onto the road and formed up before the wall. If those cavalry closed in quickly . . .

  How many would he lose if it went wrong? Practically the whole force. Four or five hund
red. It would rip the guts out of the defence. And even if he overran the guns what could he do but spike them and blow up whatever powder they had brought forward? He would win a day, or two days at best, before the enemy made good what he had done.

  This was the truth. You could dream of heroic deeds, imagine cunning attacks and ambushes, and win the war you constructed in your mind, with brilliance and with glory. But under the grey, real skies there was no answer to overwhelming force. As well shout at the wind.

  'Commander?'

  He should fire on the batteries. No doubt there would be other targets during the day, as the enemy extended his works and brought supplies forward. But they would be pounding his guns. He must pound theirs – until they saw storming parties massing in forward positions. They won't do that in daylight. It will be tonight, or dawn tomorrow . . .

  As he hesitated, a puff of smoke flew from the muzzle of the left-hand gun in the battery before him. A moment later, and almost together, came the crump of the shot and a small fountain of rubble rising lazily on the slope below the breach, a little to his left.

  'Short,' said someone.

  'Yes,' he said, and did not add but it's heavier than anything we've got.

  'Ready?' he called over his shoulder, and then remembered that they had already told him they were.

  'On the batteries, Commander?'

  'Yes, I think . . . No, wait.'

  There was movement down at the enemy battery. Men were clambering up onto the earthwork, lifting something pale, waving it . . .

  'Flag of truce, sir.'

  There it was, a great, dirty, grey rag, dancing in the field of his glass. His arms seemed to be trembling with tiredness. He could not steady his telescope. He lowered it, and squinted with his naked eye at the pale fleck in the distance.

  Well, well. So there was indeed a chance after all. A chance to do something.

  Now he must decide whether he would do it.

  'Very good,' he said. 'Find something white to wave back.'

  'Horsemen on the road, sir. Two of them.'

  Did they know his mind so well already? They had not even waited for his signal.

  'Very good,' he said again. 'Blindfold them and bring them up to the citadel. And pass the word to quarter commanders. There will be a conference at nine o'clock.'

  'Nine o'clock, Commander?' That was still two hours away.

  'It will do our unwelcome guests no harm to kick their heels for a while,' he said briskly. 'In the meantime, keep a sharp eye on those batteries. If they start building up their earthworks, give them a warning shot. And if they keep at it you hit them with everything we have.'

  And he made his way off the platform, and slowly down the bastion steps, picking his way stiffly like an old, old man.

  'Bah,' said Colonel Lanard, as his blindfold was removed in the courtyard of the Celesterburg. 'These hoods! When you are my prisoner, Wéry, I shall make you stand and wear one from dawn to noon. Perhaps then you will be more gentle.'

  Beyond him, his stony-faced, grey-haired captain dismounted, exactly as he had done the day before.

  'Forgive me,' said Wéry dryly. 'But your general continues to threaten the town, and I see no reason to relax my guard.'

  'Do you not? Well, we shall see. May we go in?'

  'I regret that it may be a little while yet before I am able to assemble my quarter commanders.'

  'It is fortuitous. My orders are to speak with you alone in the first instance.'

  Alone. Sometimes this Frenchman seemed to read his mind.

  'Of course we can move to a full session after this,' said Lanard. 'But alone, to begin with. I must insist.'

  'And if I refuse?'

  'My orders are to return at once to our lines.'

  'I see.' Wéry feigned a further hesitation. Then he shrugged. 'It will change nothing. But if you are willing to repeat yourself in front of my officers, I am amenable to it.'

  'Bravo.'

  They made their way up to the Prince's corridor and along to the antechamber once more. A few of the quarter commanders were already waiting outside the door. Their eyes were sullen, and bewildered. Why this delay? they asked. Why not just get on with it? None of them relished the thought of another fruitless parley, any more than a condemned man could wish to hear his death sentence read a second time.

  All the same, he resented the way they looked at him. And that made it easier to brush them aside.

  'I must beg your patience, gentlemen. The conference will not be held until nine. There is time for you to breakfast if you have not already done so.'

  They left the officers and the stiff-faced French captain to stare at one another in the corridor and closed the door behind them. The antechamber was quiet, and in its emptiness it seemed very long. The full grey light of winter poured in from the windows. They sat. The scrape of their chairs was loud in the room.

  'Well?' began Wéry.

  Lanard was looking at the door of the inner chamber. There was something longing in his expression that was almost comical. But the door was shut fast in their faces, and he must have known better than to court another rebuff. He turned back to the table, rubbed his eyes and yawned hugely.

  'Pardon me,' he said affably, when he had finished.

  'I fear you have not slept well, Colonel,' said Wéry woodenly.

  'And no doubt you are beautifully rested,' said Lanard. 'But I have spent many hours with my general overnight. He is not at all pleased with you, I fear. Nevertheless, there came a time towards morning when he was more ready to hear what I had to say.'

  'And?'

  'Well, you have observed our preparations for yourself . . .'

  Wéry leaned back in his chair and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. It seemed a long way above his head. Chains of tiny gilt scrollwork adorned the edges of the ceiling and curled around the hooks that held the chandeliers. Some hand had done that, labouring with great care for many days. In all the times he had visited this room he had never seen it before.

  '. . . To tell the truth, I think my general has not yet made up his mind how to proceed. He may choose to dig his way in from our current position. Or he may choose simply to lean against your fence and see if it falls over. Much may depend on how your gunners do. So far we would judge that they are willing, but perhaps not so very accurate. Even when we give them something to aim at . . .'

  'I am not disposed to listen to threats this morning,' Wéry murmured.

  'Of course you are not. But I am not threatening you. I merely review facts of which we are both aware.'

  'Very well. Proceed if you must.'

  'Well, then. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a week's time, we shall have topped your barricade. So. We understand you mean to fight through the town. We judge that you are capable of it. You see how your reputation has spread, Wéry. And I dare say that your people will continue to fight until you yourself are knocked over. After which it will indeed be all over. But consider. Your men are farmers, burghers, housewives with rolling pins, perhaps. Very soon we will know the ground as well as you. You must lose four or five for every one you kill of ours . . .'

  'Less, perhaps.'

  'I do not think so. But what I am sent to say to you is that you have a responsibility . . .'

  The light creak of a door opening interrupted him. He looked over his shoulder. Wéry sat up. It was not the door to the passage outside. It was one of the big leaves that opened onto the Prince's chamber.

  'I beg your pardon, gentlemen,' said Maria von Adelsheim. 'But I wish to join you.'

  'Ah,' said Lanard, evidently perplexed.

  Wéry looked at her. His first feeling was a simple leap of joy that she was there. But immediately it mixed with other things. I wish to join you. That was a command, not a request. This was an Imperial Knight, he thought. She must be almost the very last one at liberty in Erzberg. What was he to say? I am afraid it is impossible. It was impossible to say that to her. But if she stayed . . .

  At
the sight of her he felt, strengthening within him, his resolve to do what he was planning to do. She was herself: one of the few good things that had happened to him since he had left Brabant all those years ago. Yet she was not only herself. In her eyes and face and thoughts he could see all the people of the city of Erzberg, huddled under their roofs, waiting for the fire.

  'I do not know that my orders . . .' said Lanard. He stopped, and looked at Wéry.

  'What were you doing in there?' Wéry asked.

  'Waiting,' she said. 'I had heard there would be a conference, so I came down. I would like to sit with you. I shall say nothing, I promise.'

  'Of course,' he said.

  Lanard shrugged. Then, elaborately, he rose to his feet, until Maria had made her way around to take the chair beside Wéry. Wéry supposed that he should have risen too. Really, he was too tired to remember everything. But he was acutely conscious of the rustle of borrowed silk as she took her place near, so near beside him.

  And then, under the table, he felt her hand take his own.

  Lanard sat, colouring slightly, and cleared his throat. He focused his eyes on Wéry.

  'We were speaking of the likely course of events once we force our way into the town. And we need not quibble over figures. You know very well what sort of price the city will have to pay. Do you dispute it?'

  'No.'

  'Good. But the price need not be so dear. In the satchel of Capitaine Rouche I have the terms I spoke of yesterday. I can set them before you. In essence they are that a garrison shall be installed and that the government of the town shall pass to a council of senior inhabitants, who will conduct their administration in consultation 'with the garrison commander. Of course there will also need to be contributions made to the maintenance of the Army of Germany. Of course this is not what the townspeople would necessarily wish. Yet offered the choice between this and a massacre, I imagine that they would choose it?'

  He was searching Wéry's face as he spoke. Wéry gave no sign. The Frenchman's voice seemed to be coming from increasingly far away. The only real thing in the world was the touch of the woman's hand, lying in his own under the table.