by Aubrey Flegg
‘Come on, Louise, if I am to be on time we must go.’ Pierre had been sent off to amuse himself. Gaston closed the cover of his watch with a snap. He glanced at the note of introduction. ‘Général Napoleon Bonaparte,’ he rehearsed, before throwing it into the fire. Louise thought Gaston looked very smart. He was wearing a cutaway coat over white trousers. His hair, released from its usual plaits, curled elegantly to the top of his shoulders. The plaits – a source of pride – were a characteristic of the Hussars, who could not afford to have loose hair blowing into their eyes. She followed him through a labyrinth of corridors to a part of the inn where the rooms were larger, small suites in fact. Here he checked his watch again, acknowledged her presence with a nod, and knocked.
‘Entrez.’ Louise slipped into the room behind Gaston and then moved quickly into the deepest shadow she could find. Despite her unease about this meeting, she was glad to be back doing things with him. Apart from her encounters with Pierre, life in the barracks had been dull.
Gaston felt nervous. He knew nothing of politics, but he had no doubts about the danger of consorting with a general who was about to abandon France for a foreign army. The general – if it was he – had his back to him and was staring into the fire. Gaston was disappointed at what he saw. The man was quite short, lank hair fell to the top of his shoulders, and he was wearing a dressing gown.
‘Monsieur le Général Bonaparte,’ Gaston said, bowing. He had noticed a mirror over the fireplace; the man could see him.
‘You are on time, Lieutenant Morteau,’ the General said, without turning, ‘but I expected no less. And how is your friend General Daendels? It must have been nice to support a friend of your family at his moment of triumph.’
‘He is well, I believe,’ Gaston replied, amazed. How in God’s name did this obscure general know his family history? Bonaparte had a strong accent and Gaston vaguely remembered someone saying he was from one of the islands in the Mediterranean … Corsica perhaps? He was still adjusting his thoughts when the General turned and stood with his back to the fire, looking him up and down as if he was on parade. Gaston realised with surprise that he was really quite young, in his late twenties? His eyes were grey, humourless perhaps, but curiously penetrating. For some reason it seemed important to Gaston to have their approval. The General smiled thinly and said:
‘You cavalrymen never look your best in civilian clothes. It’s the way you turn in your toes, afraid that you will lock your spurs together.’ He laughed dryly. Gaston drew himself up, automatically responding to anything that might be an insult to the hussars. All he knew about this man was that he was a gunnery officer who had distinguished himself at the relief of Toulon, but gunners do not make fun of hussars! The General saw Gaston stiffen. ‘I like a little pride, Morteau,’ he said, ‘but tell me, when you choose a horse, Lieutenant, do you not ask yourself if it has anything between its ears?’ This really was an insult; Gaston was furious – it was an old joke in the army that cavalry officers, for all their splendour, had fewer brains than their horses. He was about to turn on his heel and walk out when he caught sight of Louise in the shadows. She was grinning, but she was shaking her head. If he walked out in high dudgeon now, who would have won the point? He pulled himself together just in time.
‘Indeed, General, the horse must be worthy of the man, but also – if I may say so – the man must be worthy of the horse.’ Touché, he thought. But his examination was not over yet. For the next half hour he stood more or less to attention while the small general marched up and down the room in his dressing gown, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, and interrogated Gaston about his movements, his rapid promotion, and the success of the Dutch campaign. When Gaston told him how General Daendels had negotiated the peace with the Dutch, the general sighed.
‘Would that all battles could be won without fighting. So it fell to your lot to bring the news to Paris?’
‘No, General, it was Captain Sorel of the Staff who was the courier, I just provided the escort.’
‘And it was you who decided that the ice would hold when you took him across the Rhine. Wasn’t that a risk?’
‘Yes, but it saved us days of travel. I was assured that speed was of the essence; I was just lucky.’
‘Just lucky! Never underestimate luck, my boy, a good officer makes his own luck.’ Then, without warning, he turned on Gaston with the lightning strike of a snake. ‘If speed was of the essence, Lieutenant Morteau, what in the devil’s name were you doing hauling a carriage across Europe; couldn’t this Captain Sorel ride a horse?’
‘They were my orders, General … protocol apparently: “The status of the courier to be maintained.”’ Even as he spoke he felt a sudden chill invade the room.
‘It was folly, Morteau, not just foolishness but folly!’ The General was staring up into Gaston’s face. Gaston had never seen cold rage like it. The man was actually hissing at him. ‘Here was information of the utmost importance to your country, mired in the roads to Mons. It took you weeks to get that man to Paris. How long would it have taken you without that damned carriage?’ The general had hooked a finger through Gaston’s buttonhole and was holding him fast.
‘In as many days as it took weeks, General,’ Gaston admitted. The little man nodded. He had made his point; his anger went as quickly as it had come.
‘Listen to me,’ the voice was suddenly soft, even affectionate. ‘One day, Lieutenant Morteau, you will bring me news of a victory, one of yours perhaps. Promise me that your horse will die under you before you lose even an hour in getting me the news.’ Then he chuckled, ‘You may not have heard, but they tell me the ice broke up the day after your crossing; you did well.’ He reached up and gave Gaston a tweak on the ear. ‘Now Lieutenant, I think we can do business. I will tell you the details later and you can confirm your decision in a letter. For now let us relax, sit down and talk war; the sound of my guns may represent the beating heart of an army, but as you say, the cavalry are its eyes and ears.’
As the two men sat together, bent over a small map-strewn table, talking about reconnaissance, scouting, spies and intelligence, Louise could feel Gaston’s mind receding from her. With a sinking heart, she knew that Gaston was now as much in this man’s thrall as young Pierre had been in thrall to him. He would go to Turkey.
It was time for her to leave, but just as she was about to fade away the General asked Gaston a question that she had been longing to ask him herself.
‘Lieutenant Morteau, you are doing well in the Hussars of Auxerre, so why leave France to come with me to Turkey?’ There was a long pause. When Gaston replied his voice had a strange intensity, and Louise knew that he was speaking from his heart.
‘General, I have witnessed Frenchmen fighting Frenchmen; I now know that I want no part in the destruction of my own people.’ He paused, and Louise realised that their minds were still in tune, because she saw, through his mind, a stretch of grey water at dusk. A shadow lay low in the water, and there were strange cries in the distance. Then, quite close, she heard a girl’s voice saying; “No, those are the noyades … silly!” There it was – that word again – what did it mean?
The General was speaking. ‘It angers me too. Here we are, killing our own people in their thousands, when those same lives could more profitably be expended to the glory of France.’
‘At home or on foreign fields?’ Gaston asked.
‘Either. War is the only way to distract us from our present folly. Call back the Prussians, I say! At the moment your Frenchman is like the child of a cruel father, all he can do is hate and resent the tyranny of the father. To coerce the peasant we need to portray France not as his father but as his mother, his hearth, and his home, something to love, to protect, and to defend with his life. The Terror is a wasteful tool. Peasants don’t march for liberty or equality or fraternity, but they will fight with passion for the things familiar to them. And what is more familiar to someone than his mother? Give me ten thousand peasants, trained in ar
ms, fighting chacun pour sa mère, and nothing will stop us.’ The General rose to his feet and began pacing up and down. ‘For all that I won back Toulouse for them, I am cast adrift. “Robespierre’s man,” they call me.’ His voice was bitter; ‘I’m nobody’s man, Morteau, but my own! They have cut off Robespierre’s head, and I don’t propose to add to the waste by offering them mine. Come …’ he said sitting down again, ‘you say you are the eyes of the army, tell me how you will see that your intelligence gets back to me.’
Louise did not attempt to follow their discussion, but stood back, dazed by what she had heard. Tens of thousands of peasants to be expended for this little man’s ambition! Yet there was something about him that was compelling, even if terrifying. She remembered a day long ago in her native Holland. Father had taken her out along the sea dykes when high tides and an on-shore wind had piled the ocean up against the barrier. The wind-whipped waves splashed at their feet. She had turned her face into the wind and shouted her defiance. But Father had swept his cloak about her and warned: ‘Be careful what you say to the waves, my dear, just one small breach in the dyke and that ocean will sweep in and cover our land.’ This General Bonaparte had eyes that were the same sea-grey as that ocean, and his energy had the same feeling of power as that frustrated sea. ‘Go away little man,’ she whispered. ‘Go off to Turkey, and leave my Gaston behind.’ Neither of them heard her appeal. She had lost Gaston’s mind to a stronger one than hers, and she faded from the room.
CHAPTER 10
The Noyades
The following day Gaston was nervous but excited. He made several attempts to get Louise to appear but she resisted. She knew that he was still under the influence of his new friend Bonaparte, and recognised that he, for the moment, was the dominant force. She had to find a chink in Gaston’s armour – and she thought she knew of one that might work – but she must choose her own moment. It was, however, Gaston who forced the pace.
Darkness had fallen. Gaston was bent over a small table. The only source of light was a candle that stood beside him. Louise could hear the dry sound of a quill rasping on paper. The light, reflecting off the paper, lit his face from below, and she was reminded of a painting of another letter-writer that had hung in the Master’s studio in Delft all those years ago. She had liked it, but the Master had dismissed it as being in the manner of Caravaggio: A trick done with mirrors. She could feel Gaston’s concentration flowing away from her like a stream.
‘Gaston?’ she said. ‘Where are you going?’
He pursed his lips. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I’m just writing a letter.’
Louise moved towards him. He put his quill down but laid it so that it covered what he had been writing.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ she asked.
‘You always disturb me, Mademoiselle Eeden.’ He seemed nervous.
‘Who are you writing to?’
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business!’
‘Of course it’s my business. You’re writing to General Bonaparte, aren’t you? You’ve decided to go to Turkey.’
‘You can come too, you know. Well, why not? Don’t you like the idea of a Turkish harem?’ Gaston looked slyly up at her, his eyebrows arched. Louise was furious.
‘Don’t you speak to me, or look at me like that, Gaston Morteau! You may take a painted portrait to Turkey if you wish, but don’t expect to find me there. I don’t want to go anywhere with a man who has cut himself off from where his heart and soul lie. Go to Turkey and you will be abandoning the Gaston you might have been, just as you will be abandoning young Pierre. What’s driving you away, Gaston … your nightmares?’ He looked away. ‘No, don’t turn your back on me. There’s no point; you won’t be able to escape from your dreams, they’ll follow you wherever you hide.’ He turned towards her as if to say something, and she saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. She thrust for home. ‘I know about your nightmares, remember? I sat beside you during your fever, when you were dreaming about the noyades. Then, the other night in the inn you scared young Pierre with a shout of “Vive le Roi.” Tell me about the noyades, Gaston. Then, I promise, you can write your letter in peace.’
‘Damn you, Louise,’ he breathed. ‘Damn you a thousand times.’ But his head had dropped; he rested it on his hands. Then he made one last effort. ‘Don’t you see – I want to get away from all this; I want to go forward, not back.’
‘But you are not going forward, you are running away. Just tell me what happened in Nantes, then I will be quiet.’
He closed his eyes, and then said in a low voice: ‘There was a girl involved. I feel … a bit ashamed.’
‘On account of me?’
‘You … and another.’ Of course; she remembered a gnarled old tree above a country road, and a girl waiting. Louise felt a tiny stab of pain.
‘Never mind,’ she said, ‘just tell it to me as it was.’
Gaston turned from the table and rested his hands on his knees as Louise sank down and sat cross-legged on the floor at his feet. He took a deep breath and, fixing his eyes on a point above Louise’s head, he began: ‘Last October, thirty thousand armed men from an area known as the Vendée, who were loyal to the King and to their priests, crossed the Loire, the great river that divides western France into north and south.’
‘Loyal to priests?’ Louise queried.
‘Many priests refused to swear allegiance to the civil authorities, saying that they wouldn’t take an oath to an atheist Republic. Between the Royalists and the priests they took … oh … hundreds of thousands of peasants – men like the ones you saw at the Pont de Chasse, armed with scythes, rusting swords and fowling pieces. These were the Vendéeans. Over the river they poured, crossing at bridges, in boats, and at fords … they were like lemmings. Once across, they headed north. They had just one idea, and that was to get to the little port of Granville on the Normandy coast. Here they were told that they would find a fleet from England with an émigré army – the Royalists who had fled the Revolution – and together they would march on Paris and the monarchy would be restored. It was all a cruel lie. They fought, by God they fought; they captured cities, laid waste … but when they got to the coast, the port was sealed and there was not a sail in sight. Winter was approaching; they had eaten everything edible in a swathe across France and now they had to return down the same route, exhausted, harried, and starving. When at last they reached the Loire again they found the bridges blocked, the fords held against them, and their boats burned. It was then that the real slaughter began.
‘All that autumn in Auxerre we heard of the progress of the Vendéeans, and were frustrated to be out of the action, now it seemed that it was all over. Then, just before Christmas last year we got our call.’ Gaston paused, and then he shook his head and went on. ‘A politico, a member of the government from Paris, needed an escort to Nantes. We all applied to be let go.’ He gave a wry smile, ‘I must have clamoured loudest. I was a different man then, Louise. I was intense, proud … full of zeal to prove myself and my troop. The Republic was a glorious ideal. When the guillotine dropped in the name of the Republic I washed away my revulsion, with the same ease that the servants of the Republic wash away the blood from under the guillotine today. I was pure, I was brave, and what – in my imagination – I did, I did for France …’ He flipped a hand and sighed.
‘We took the road south and west until we met the Loire and then followed the river towards its mouth. To begin with we were relaxed. Our politico needed to inspect several of the great chateaux that lie along the Loire, to check that the seals put on them to prevent their owners returning were intact. In that way I trailed my spurs through the dust-sheeted rooms of some of the greatest chateaux of France.
‘The signs of war increased as we moved west. The Vendéeans had burned whole villages for resisting them; so our forces had burned other villages for co-operating with them. I cannot describe the horrors we met. We passed columns of prisoners being marched till they died because thei
r captors had run out of the lead to shoot them. I looked down into the despairing faces of my own countrymen: simple, uncomprehending peasants like the migrant workers that sing while they pick our vines and tread our grapes. But I told myself that their suffering was merited because of the terrible things they had done.
‘When we got to Nantes even the semblance of order in the town was a relief. It’s a port, situated on a wide shallow estuary. There were no more corpses beside the roads here. The soldiers wore real uniforms, not rags, and civilians no longer felt they had to dress like sans-culottes.’
‘Sans …?’ Louise queried. Gaston explained about the Jacobin uniform.
‘I went in search of a billet, and found space down by the docks. Here my men cleaned up and then set off into the town. It’s extraordinary what the uniform of a hussar will do in a town full of infantry. We were hardly there an hour before I got an invitation to attend a dinner and reception put on by the harbour authority.
‘There seemed to be no shortages here, not at any rate for officials of the Republic. Perhaps supplies came in by sea? I was put sitting beside a remarkably pretty girl who told me that her father was the port’s doctor. We talked about hussars, which pleased me immensely, and she told me of the slaves from Africa that her father had to certify as fit for transportation to our colonies in the West Indies; Nantes, you see, is a slave port. After dinner, the reception room was hot, and the wine of Bordeaux, though light on the palate, is strong in the head. I suggested that she take my cloak and that we walk beside the water. She took my arm, I held her close against the cold, and felt her body soft against mine.’
