by A L Berridge
He was singing that last day too. We weren’t training that afternoon, we were all of us ready long ago, and becoming more than a little pissed off with the delay. We were lying about in the sun doing nothing, and André was actually asleep.
Then we heard it, the faint sound of someone singing in the distance, and a minute later the cheery jingle of light harness. André opened his eyes and groaned. I looked over to see de Chouy trotting happily towards us, waving a letter as if he expected us to be excited.
I said ‘If it’s another change of timing I’m going to stick it up his arse.’
Philippe d’Argenson, Comte de Gressy
Extract from plain text of letter to André de Roland, dated 2 June 1640
… It is quite definite. The Seigneur de Puységur returned from Soissons this afternoon, where he had speech with both His Majesty and M. le Cardinal, and the plan is finally approved. We are currently at Amiens, but M. le Maréchal desires the troops shall move within twelve days from this date. Our own force is to move sooner, and our intention is to be in Abbeville on 7 June, so that our assault will take place in the early hours of Friday 8th along the schedule of timing previously discussed.
Puységur is confident the ruse will work. As he told His Eminence, the Spaniards are convinced we dare not assault Arras. They have a saying to the effect that ‘When the French take Arras, the mice will eat the cats!’
We will make them eat their own words, will we not? …
Stefan Ravel
So you’ve even got that, have you? My word, you are thorough. Fancy young André keeping it all that time. Still, I suppose it’s reasonable, we’d been waiting for it long enough.
But do you know, it was almost a sad occasion in a way. Now the moment had finally come we all began to see what it was really going to mean. It was the end of the Occupation, the end of the army, we were suddenly going back to the real world. For one thing, I’d been eating at the expense of the Chevalier de Roland for some time now, but in just over a week I’d be back to worrying where my next meal was coming from.
I’m a soldier. A man like me, you don’t get close to people, for the simple reason they’re likely to get blown to fuck the minute you take your eyes off them, and sometimes even if you don’t. Still, I’d been with this unit four years now, and that’s a long time. I’ll be honest with you, Abbé, I looked round that little bunch of men that afternoon and felt something almost like affection. Young André, perky, bright-eyed with excitement. Marcel, radiant with enthusiasm, eyes on my face, seeing the future as he wanted it to be, not the way it was. Even bloody-minded Jacques Gilbert and dopy Bernard Rouet, I almost felt as if I’d miss them. Sentimental balls, of course, but you know how it is, things seem different when you know you’re going to lose them.
I wasn’t the only one feeling that way. We had a little party on the last night to finish up our reserves of cider, but it was rather a subdued affair. Oh, people like Lefebvre were fine, the ones who’d only seen the war as a disruption of their routine, but there were one or two more thoughtful types who saw things differently. Mercier, who for the first time in his life had really been something. Libert, who’d been fully accepted as a Flamand among Frenchmen. Pepin, who most of us would normally have been chucking stones at. Leroux, who’d have to go back to doffing his hat and bowing to a master he’d always despised. Oh, there were a few of us, Abbé, a few.
I stuck it for as long as I could, then wandered outside for a little peace and privacy, the sound of singing following me out into the night air. I headed for that quiet spot behind the weapons outhouse, but heard movement as I approached it, and realized someone else had had the same idea.
It was André, and he was fencing all by himself in the dark. Thrust, parry, riposte, lunge in-out, and all against the empty air.
Well, I’d had a bit to drink, Abbé, maybe more than I should. I’d had a drink, there was unfinished business here, and the opportunity would never come again. I stepped out in front of him and drew my sword.
‘Fancy a bout?’
He laughed politely.
‘What’s the matter? Think you’re too good for me?’ He was, of course, I’ve never denied it, but it wasn’t everybody who’d risk fencing him at all.
He had the grace to look abashed. ‘Well …’
‘You beat me once, remember?’ I said. ‘This is my last chance at revenge.’
He grinned at me, the cocky bugger. ‘Well, in that case …’ He saluted and gave me en garde. ‘But practice speed only, all right?’
‘To start with,’ I said, and smiled.
We plodded through the opening moves, and I was careful to give him my full attention.
‘Why does it have to be your last chance?’ he said, as we patted our blades against each other, civilized as little girls. ‘There could be others.’
‘Really?’ I said, risking a thrust, and nipping back fast. ‘Think you’ll be up for an occasional afternoon’s fencing with the local tanner, do you?’
He smoothly closed distance to engage me again. ‘I might.’
‘Not with this one, you won’t,’ I said. ‘I’m giving up the tannery, I’m going to be a soldier.’
He did something complicated with his wrist and sent my sword flying harmlessly into the grass. ‘So am I. We might be in the same regiment.’
I picked up my sword and wiped it on my breeches. ‘That’ll be nice. You can splash me as you gallop past.’
He waited patiently for me to resume position. ‘It doesn’t have to be like that.’
‘Yes it does. I’ll make appointé maybe, and anspessade if I live long enough, but that’s as good as it gets.’
We resumed the bout. He was gentler for a moment, doubtless making allowances for my inferior skill, then said casually ‘Yes, but if you come with us …’
I walloped his blade out of my face. ‘I’m not coming with you.’
‘Why not? You’d be much more independent. I’d be a Gentleman Volunteer, you’d only really be answering to me.’ He was back on the attack again, dancing back and forwards, luring me out towards him.
I stayed right where I was. ‘You want me to be your servant?’
‘Of course not.’ He kept distance, his blade tickling mine point-to-point. ‘I’d still need your advice. You could do what you liked.’
I batted his blade away and stepped back. ‘You don’t know much about the army, do you, André?’
He bristled at once. ‘My family has always been in the army.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘You know what it looks like from horseback with a wagonload of servants following you around. Come down in the mud sometime and I’ll show you what it’s really like.’
He was silent a moment, then offered his blade and we engaged again. ‘Maybe that’s why I need you. I’d like to understand those things, I’d be a better officer if I did.’
‘Won’t happen,’ I said. ‘Officers and men don’t mix.’
‘They can. We’ve proved that here, haven’t we?’
‘A year from now if you see me in the ranks you’ll cut me dead.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘You’re a gentleman, aren’t you?’
He came in hard at my chest. ‘So? Why shouldn’t a gentleman be friends with a soldier?’
I slammed my sword round and stopped him dead. ‘Because.’
He stepped back, wiping the back of his arm across his face. ‘I do wish you’d tell me.’
I looked at him seriously. ‘No, you don’t.’
He lowered his sword. ‘I sometimes think you don’t much like nobility.’
‘I sometimes think you’re right.’
‘It’s different in the army …’
‘It’s worse in the fucking army. There are more of the bastards to steer clear of, that’s all.’
He sighed patronizingly. ‘An officer has to give orders, it’s his job …’
‘All right,’ I said, and touched his blade to draw him back in
to the bout. ‘All right, here’s a little story for you. A young man in the army at the siege of La Mothe, under heavy cannon fire all day. That night he got drunk.’
‘You?’
‘Not me,’ I said, fencing him back to a safe distance. ‘But the lad got pissed enough to hit someone, and unfortunately it was his capitaine.’
‘That’s not so good,’ he said. He was attacking again but his mind wasn’t on it, he kept glancing up at my face.
‘Not so good,’ I agreed. ‘So next day the capitaine made him run the gauntlet. You know what that is, my little officer?’
He nodded without looking up. ‘You run between two ranks of men and they try to hit you as you pass.’
‘Very good,’ I said. ‘You clearly have all the education an officer needs. This wasn’t one of the worst either, no pike, only cudgels. The lad was popular, no one hit as hard as they might. The men either side of me never touched him at all.’
‘You knew him?’
‘A little,’ I said conversationally. ‘He was my brother.’
He stopped dead and stared at me. ‘Stefan …’
I struck his blade hard with my own. ‘We’re bouting, damn you.’
He dropped his eyes and put his sword back into play. ‘What happened?’
I fenced without speaking a moment, beating the memory down hard. ‘He made it through. So the capitaine had him driven through again. And again. Until he died.’
I heard his intake of breath. ‘I’m sorry. Oh, Stefan, I’m so …’
‘You’re not allowed to be sorry,’ I said. ‘You’re an officer, remember? Your whole authority depends on it. So let’s hear you justify what happened.’
‘I can’t, it’s wrong …’
‘It’s legal. Justify it.’
‘I won’t.’
He stepped back, but I struck out hard at him, my point grazing right across his shirt. He stared at me in shock.
‘Justify it,’ I said, and lunged.
His sword smashed up to meet mine. ‘You think I’d do something like that?’
‘You’d have to. Discipline is all that stops the men tearing you in pieces. You’d do it, André, what makes you so fucking different?’
He didn’t answer, he was too busy fighting me off. I lashed out again, but he was twisting away and back, his blade up square to block me, the impact jarring up my arm. I slid up close, driving hard against him, his feet slipping on the grass as he struggled to hold ground. I used my whole weight to shove him away, then swiped sharp after him. He ducked, but my guard glanced off his chin, sending him staggering backwards, out of control. I thrust forward at once, but he spun clean round for the parry, then leapt back, righting himself straight and shaking the hair out of his eyes. Then he was steady again, coming in fast, jabbing at me in sharp, crisp thrusts, I couldn’t deflect quick enough, I was having to give ground. He was too good for me, the little bastard, he always was.
I backed off and half lowered my sword. ‘Slow it down a little, will you?’
He was as into the fight as I was, his head jerked back in frustration, but he got a grip on himself, took a deep breath and slowed down.
I shot back up to combat speed and really let him have it. He stumbled in shock, his blade wavering on my outside line. I belted it right out and back, I opened him like a bloody butterfly and slammed him against the wall, forcing my guard up under his jaw, my left hand clamping on his wrist, twisting it hard until the sword fell out of his hand.
I held him there a moment, looking right into those disbelieving, furious eyes, but there was no satisfaction in it, Abbé, only a kind of sour disappointment. He was so easy to cheat, poor bugger, honour made him helpless as a child.
I said sadly ‘You’re no different, André. You’re a gentleman all through.’
I sensed the movement just a second before the pain hit me, and next moment I was bent double on the ground, eyes screwed shut in the effort not to scream. It took me a moment to become aware of anything else, then I saw his feet step past my face and his hand reach down into the grass to retrieve his sword. I peered up and there he was above me, sword steady in his hand.
The little bastard had kneed me in the balls.
He looked down at me dispassionately. ‘What was that about me being a gentleman?’
For a moment I’ll admit to a twinge of alarm, then a little smile twitched the corners of his mouth, and I’m afraid I had to laugh. It was excruciating, but I couldn’t help it. I coughed, retched, and said ‘All right, so you’re evil as well.’
He laughed too, the kid, he knelt down beside me and waited for my contortions to subside. ‘I’m sorry. But you’re wrong about me, Stefan, you really are.’
‘Evidently.’ I’d done the sensible thing and judged him by my experience, but the problem with André de Roland was he wasn’t like anyone else I’ve ever known.
He said gently ‘I’m sorry about your brother.’
I sat up rather gingerly and looked at him. There was a graze on his jaw where my guard had struck, but nothing in his eyes but concern.
I said ‘I know,’ and was surprised to find it was true.
We sat in silence a while. The singing from the Hermitage seemed to grow louder, accompanied by a rhythmic stamping of feet. I might have known it, they were at that stage of drunkenness, they’d started on that sodding ‘Petit Oiseau’.
I said ‘They’ll come looking for you in a minute.’
He nodded reluctantly and stood up. He sheathed his sword, turned half back towards me and said ‘It’s all right, I do understand.’
‘What?’
He gave a tiny shrug. ‘I can see why you won’t want to know me in the army. I wouldn’t either.’
I stood to brush myself down. ‘Oh, I don’t know, it might be entertaining.’
He was very still. ‘You mean that?’
I said ‘Yes, little general. I think I do.’
Twenty-Six
Père Gérard Benoît
The Second Battle of Dax took place on the morning of 8 June in the year of our Lord 1640.
There is little about the prosperity of our village to suggest the tragic conflict that once raged within its enclosing Wall, yet the signs are there if the patient visitor will look for them. The crosses either side of the Dax-Verdâme Road mark the place where the barricade once stood, and are a permanent memorial to the villagers who lost their lives there. Les Étoiles still stands, and its pockmarked walls bear witness to the savagery of the battle which raged in its environs, while two crossed pike take pride of place about the fireplace inside the Quatre Corbeaux. The stables where so many of our brave young men met their end have long since been pulled down, and a new alehouse to welcome travellers erected in their place, yet the sign above its door gives it the name Le Tireur d’Élite, and the painting is clearly recognizable as that of a marksman in the act of firing a musket.
Our village inn, Le Soleil Splendide, has been restored to its former condition, save only for the fine back gates, which are of decorated wrought iron, and represent the work of our own village smith, Colin Lefebvre. Of the infamous watchtower there is now no trace, and with it has gone the only tangible memorial to the achievements of our Seigneur on that most desperate morning. Neither is there anything to mark the scene of the last stand at our Gate. Nothing is there now but our own Wall, seemingly unmarked and unchanged by time. The embrasures which once housed mighty cannon now enclose only baskets of flowers, while the great Gate of Dax stands forever open, revealing the green plains of Picardie stretching away to the beech forest on the horizon. These things are all that remain to show how André de Roland, Sieur of Dax, fought alone against his enemies to win our freedom, and perhaps, in the end, they are the memorial that would have pleased him most.
Carlos Corvacho
Funny kind of mood there was those days, almost expectant, if you know what I mean, and people going quiet when they saw us coming. My Capitán took to nosing round the woods again,
said he was hunting, but I guessed he thought the rebels might be back, and was keeping his eyes open for signs of activity.
That’s what he was doing that last day too. The Thursday, this would have been, Señor, 7 June. I was with him that afternoon, and it happened we picked up the trace of a wild boar. We followed it all the way into the north-eastern corner of the Forest of Verdâme, then the beast broke cover right in front of us and went belting off towards this great rocky mound on our right.
‘Now we have him, Carlos,’ says my Capitán. ‘He can’t climb that.’ So we go plunging after it, but when we get to the knoll it’s completely disappeared. ‘That’s interesting,’ says my Capitán, then suddenly he exclaims, and when I join him I see why. There were these two great rocks like cliffs, Señor, only overlapping very slightly, like the two halves of a kissing gate, so there was actually a little path between them. A well-worn path, by the look of it, and wide enough to take a full-grown boar. There were hoof prints as well as boot tracks. Horses.
‘Very interesting indeed,’ says my Capitán, and guides his horse carefully through. And there it is, this distinct track, leading away bold as anything off towards the east Wall. So we follow it quite a way until we see the gorge coming up and think we’re going to have to turn back, but that’s when we get the really big surprise. Once we get to the brink, there’s suddenly no gorge at all. There’s been some kind of landslide at one time, Señor, and there’s this one part of the ravine where it’s almost filled in, you could ride a horse right across it. It was steep down and up again, and very narrow, a little like a single-track bridge if you take my meaning, but we rode over it with no trouble at all.
We knew what we’d found then. Once the gorge was crossed, there was nothing to stop a man riding on through the forest and out into France where the Wall stopped. The Capitán reckoned the rebels hadn’t got a new base at all, they were simply living in France and nipping in and out when they felt like it.
