Meanwhile the other soldiers took the remaining four villagers (whose arses had been in receipt of said treatment), bound them hand and foot, and tied them over a fallen tree in such a way that (begging your pardon) their bums stuck up. Then, after pulling their trousers down, they gathered brushwood, tied it in bundles, and beat and scraped so mercilessly on their new fiddles that the red juice soon flowed. ‘Right!’ they said. ‘Those bums look a bit wet, we’re going to have to dry them out.’ The peasants’ screams were pitiful, but the soldiers were enjoying themselves enormously and sawed away until all the skin and flesh were gone, exposing the bone. As for me, they let me return to my hut. The musketeers knew their way now, so I never found out what they did with the peasants in the end.
Fifteen
Simplicius is plundered, and has the strangest dream about the peasantry and what happens in wartime
Back home, I found that my tinder box and my household equipment, plus my entire reserve of pathetic vegetables, which I’d spent all summer growing in my garden and was keeping for the winter to come, were gone. All of them. ‘What shall I do now?’ I asked. That was when my plight really forced me onto my knees. I mustered my few wits to tell me what to do and what to avoid. However, my experience was slim, certainly not up to forming a proper plan. All I could do was place myself in God’s hands and rely on him completely. Otherwise I’d have lost hope – of that I’m sure. Also, the things I’d heard and seen that day kept running through my mind, making me think less about food and my own upkeep, more about the antipathia that existed between soldiers and peasantry. Stupidly, I could only conclude there were two kinds of people in the world. They couldn’t both be descended from Adam, so some must be wild and some tame. And like other dumb animals, they tore strips off one another.
Musing like this, I fell asleep, scared and cold and empty-bellied. I dreamt that the trees around my hut took on a different look. Right at the top of each one sat a nobleman, and the branches bore not leaves but all kinds of military men, some with long pikes, others with muskets, halberds, flags, even fifes or drums. Everything was pleasingly arranged in tiers. The roots, on the other hand, were occupied by common folk – artisans, day labourers, serfs and the like. These gave each tree its strength or replenished what it lost. Indeed, they personally replaced every leaf that fell, badly depleting their own number in the process. At the same time they griped about those sitting in the tree. Quite rightly, in fact, because the whole weight of the tree rested on them. It bore down on them so hard that the money gushed from their purses, no matter how tightly these were tied. And when the coins wouldn’t come out the military taxed the owners so brutally (‘contributions’, they were called) that groans spilt from their hearts, tears from their eyes, blood from their fingernails, the actual marrow from their bones. Even so, there were some (‘jokers’, these were termed) who, refusing to worry, took it all in their stride and lightened their crosses by hurling ridicule.
Sixteen
The daily life of the modern fighting man, and how hard it is for a mere trooper to gain promotion
So the roots of the trees had to put up with constant slog and misery, while those on the lower branches, despite having to work even harder and put up with much more, led an altogether merrier life. Yet at the same time they were vicious, tyrannical, usually godless, and invariably a burden to the roots – a heavy, almost intolerable burden. Lines have been written about them:
Through hunger and thirst, through heat and through cold,
Hard work, low pay, whatever life may hold,
Brute violence, random outrage,
Depend on it – your trooper will oblige.
Quite true, of course. How else did troopers spend their time except scoffing and boozing or starving and missing their drink, then whoring and buggering, roistering and gambling, feasting and rioting, striking folk dead or falling off the perch themselves, either practising or undergoing torture, hassling folk or hiding from same, feeling sick with worry one day, panicking the next, raiding or being raided, looting or being looted, spreading terror, trembling in terror, bashing people, being bashed – in summa, dealing blows and suffering blows in turn are the soldier’s whole existence and nothing, be it winter or summer, snow or ice, heat or cold, rain or wind, mountain or valley, meadow or swamp, no ditch, pass, ocean, wall, water, fire, fortification, family member, physical risk, or pang of conscience, no fear of death or of forfeiting heaven’s protection – nothing at all could stop you. No, on you blundered, ever eager, till at length, one by one, in battles, sieges, attacks, campaigns, even back in your billets (heaven on Earth to the soldier, particularly when well-fleshed peasant girls are to be had there), you measured your length, met your end, passed away, popped your clogs. Except for a few who, grown old, if they’d not stolen enough or salted enough away, turned into indefatigable beggars and tramps. Next up from these toilers sat former chicken thieves who’d spent years in constant peril, clinging tight to the bottom branches, and had been lucky enough to cheat death for this long. Grim-faced, they looked slightly more respectable, having clambered that bit higher. Above them sat others, higher in rank and with bigger ideas, being in command of those below them. They were called jerkin-beaters because of their habit of ‘dusting off’ the pikemen’s backs (and heads, sometimes) with their fists and halberds and dealing out similarly random punishments to musketeers. Above them was a gap, a smooth bit of trunk with no branches, smeared with miraculous materials and curious soaps of envy; however nimble the climber, only those of noble birth had the know-how or education to scale it, for it bore a smoother polish than a marble pillar or steel mirror. Above the gap sat the junior officers or ensigns, some young, some ripe in years, the former having been helped up by family, the latter having (to an extent) climbed by their own efforts, using either a silver ladder known as ‘Grease-my-palm’ or a different stirrup that luck (or some other agency) held there for them. Farther up sat others, who also had their troubles, their worries and their challenges, but with this advantage: they were best able to fortify their purses with the fat that, using a knife labelled ‘contributions’, they drew from the roots. This they did with especial dexterity when a commissar came along and shook a pailful of coins over the tree to stimulate growth. Most they caught as it fell, leaving almost nothing for those below. Starvation killed more of the latter than died in battle – a fate that the former were apparently spared. It also accounted for the constant upward scrambling: everyone wanted one of the loftier, pleasanter perches. However, certain idle scoundrels barely earned their keep. Making little or no attempt to get on, they did the minimum that duty demanded. The lowest (still ambitious) waited for those above them to tumble, leaving a seat vacant. But if one in 10,000 did manage the switch it was at an age when he ought to have been toasting apples behind the stove, not falling on the battlefield and expiring at the enemy’s feet. And if somebody did perform well and really made progress, the others would only be jealous, or he might forfeit rank and life following some accident. Things were worst up at the smooth bit I was talking about, because anyone with a good sergeant was sorry to lose him, as was bound to happen once he’d been booted upstairs. Which was why, instead of promoting experienced soldiers, they preferred to take pen-pushers, valets, elderly pageboys, nobs fallen on hard times, poor relations, parasites and other ‘have-nots’ who were spoon-fed a commission they didn’t deserve.
Seventeen
Although in wartime the nobleman is rightly put above the commoner, many plebs gain high honours too
This irked one sergeant so badly, he made a big fuss. However, a member of the aristocracy put him right: ‘But that’s how it is, don’t you see? Look anywhere: the top jobs go to noblemen. Even on merit, you can say. Greybeards don’t conquer enemies. Otherwise, why not hire billy goats? Or, as the song says:
Introduce a young bull to the herd.
He’ll know why he’s there.
He’ll keep his cows bunched
In spite of the old beast’s complaining.
The cattleman, too, will trust him,
Despite the new beast’s tender years.
Don’t ever believe the old lie
That age alone brings expertise.
‘Tell me this, old yokel. Who will the men obey most readily: a nob or a hick? What price battlefield discipline when the men lack respect? Any general will tell you: a titled officer is more likely to repay trust than some farmer’s lad who, having already quit the plough, can’t even stay loyal to his parents. A patrician would sooner die with honour than stain his escutcheon by committing treason, deserting – whatever. Anyway, nobles should always take precedence. That’s something we read in Johannes de Platea, who notes explicitly that, when it comes to filling commissions, social standing should always be key. Nobs before yobs, you might say. It’s the same everywhere. There’s backing in Scripture, too: “Happy are you, O land, when your king is a nobleman.” You’ll find that in Ecclesiastes, chapter 10 – ringing testimony to the preferment due to nobility. Even a good soldier, one with the smell of powder in his nostrils, able to return steady fire in every situation, won’t necessarily be fit to command others. In a noble, the ability’s inborn, or has been there since childhood. Seneca says, “The noble mind has this quality – that it draws inspiration from nobleness. No one of elevated spirit takes pleasure in the mean and sordid.” Faustus Poeta voices the same thought in his distich:
If rustic simplicity brought you forth,
Nobility of mind will pass you by.
‘I’ll go further: the toff, being wealthy, is better able than the peasant to help out subordinates with cash and top up army units with additional recruits. And another thing: setting slave above master is asking for trouble. Your peasant thinks he’s the bee’s knees when suddenly placed in charge. The saying goes:
No sword slices sharper
Than when slave is made master.
‘If there’d been a long and honoured tradition of peasants holding high rank the way nobles do now, you wouldn’t find the former picking just any old aristo. Oh, no. And raising you soldiers of fortune a notch in rank has been tried often. Trouble is, by the time you pass the test you’re so old, one hesitates to promote you. The fires of youth have died down. You tend to go easy on an ailing body that, after all it’s been through, is no longer fit for active service. You begin to focus on protecting one who (God knows) has lost interest in fighting and gaining honour. A cub, don’t forget, makes a keener hunter than a fading lion.’
The sergeant disagreed: ‘Only a numbskull would want to fight with no chance of promotion. Damn it all! You won’t find me fighting a war where it doesn’t matter how well you do! I don’t know how many times I’ve heard our old general say he wants no one under his command who doesn’t firmly believe he can become a general himself if he fights well! It’s common knowledge: countries that reward the courage of honest pikemen by pushing them up the ladder win most wars. Look at the Persians and Turks! As the poet writes:
The lamp will light your way if fed
With good fat oil to keep it red.
Loyal service too must see its day;
The soldier’s mettle thrives on pay.’
The nobleman protested: ‘If an honest man shows talent, he’ll not be overlooked. You’ll find plenty these days who, after swapping plough, needle, last or crook for a weapon, do well in battle. You’ll see such men leapfrogging the lower nobility to become counts and barons. Think of the Imperial army’s Johann von Werd. Think of the Swede, Stallhans. Or how about the Hessian pair, Little Jacob and Saint-André? I could name many more, though for brevity’s sake I won’t. Nor is there anything new under the sun; future years will see their share of low-born but honest folk attaining high office through war. It happened in the old days, too: Tamburlaine was a pigman before becoming a mighty king and a threat to the world. Agathocles, King of Sicily, was a potter’s son, while Telephas rose from making carts to sit on the throne of Lydia. Emperor Valentinian’s father sold rope. The serf Mauritius Cappadox succeeded Tiberius as emperor, while John Tzimisces came up from the schools to achieve imperial status. Flavius Vobiscus tells us that Bonosus Imperator was once a poor schoolmaster’s son. Hyperbolus, son of Chermidi, began as a lamp-maker and went on to become Prince of Athens. Justinus, who reigned before Justinian, had also looked after pigs in his youth. Hugh Capet, King of France, started out as a butcher’s son. And Pizarro, another ex-pigman, later governed the West Indies and measured his gold in hundredweights.’
The sergeant countered: ‘That’s as may be, but in my view your nobleman stops commoners gaining promotion. He’s barely emerged from the shell before he’s set on a pedestal that folk like us can never dream of climbing. We outperform toffs every day, but they’re seen as field-marshal material from the word go. Plenty of bright peasants are held back by lack of funds for college; many a sound soldier grows old and slumps over his musket who might have commanded a regiment at least, serving his general well.’
Eighteen
Simplicius takes his first leap into the world – without much luck
But I’d heard enough from the old ass. Fact was, I’d no time for his whining because he often whipped his poor men like curs. Turning back to the trees that covered the countryside, I watched the way they moved, brushing their branches against one another. Hundreds of lads came tumbling down. One puff of wind and they hit the floor, bang. In an instant, this one lost an arm, that one a leg, a third everything from the shoulders up. And as I watched, the trees seemed to merge into one. Up in the crown sat Mars, god of war. The branches covered all Europe. This one tree, it seemed to me, might have shaded the whole wide world. However, because of envy and hatred, suspicion and greed, overweening jealousy, arrogance and other fine qualities, biting north winds gusted through it. The sparse foliage let light through. Someone had carved this stanza on the trunk:
The holm oak, wind-buffeted, damaged already,
Breaks off its own branches, hastening its own demise.
Our domestic wars, pitching brother against brother,
Turn everything upside down, causing only grief.
The din of such destructive blasts, splitting the very trunk, wrenched me awake. I sat up sharply – to find only myself, alone in my hut. That set me thinking again: what should I do now? Staying in the forest was not an option. Too much had been taken for that. All I had left were a few books, now scattered at random. I picked one up and started flicking through its pages, my eyes streaming and my heart calling upon God to point me in the right direction. Suddenly I came across a letter that my hermit had written while he still lived. It read: ‘Dear Simplicius, when you find this note, leave the forest immediately. Save both yourself and the priest from the danger now facing you. He’s been good to me, the priest – very good. You must think of God constantly and pray to him all the time; he will lead you wherever is right for you. Make sure you serve him diligently, the way you used to when you were living in the forest with me. Do that and you’ll never lose heart. Farewell.’
I pressed my lips to the letter many thousands of times and planted as many kisses on the hermit’s grave before setting out to look for folk, determined not to stop till I found some. I walked straight on for two days, and when night overtook me found a hollow tree to shelter in. All I ate was beech mast, picking it up as I went along. On the third day, somewhere near Gelnhausen, I came across a large clearing and treated myself to a feast. Dotted all over it were stooks that the peasants, driven off in the aftermath of the famous Battle of Nördlingen, had (luckily for me) had to abandon in a hurry. Under one of these I camped for the night, because it was bloody cold, believe me! First, though, I stuffed myself with some more rubbed wheat grain – a taste I hadn’t enjoyed for some time.
Nineteen
How Simplicius takes to Hanau, Hanau having just taken Simplicius
Day dawned, and after stuffing myself with more wheat I set out for Gelnhausen. I
found the gates wide open, with part of the town burnt down and still half buried under piles of dung. Inside, I couldn’t see a living creature. Dead bodies lay strewn down streets to left and right, some stripped naked, some in their undershirts. The sight was pitiful, and of course it shocked me to the core. I couldn’t, in my innocence, begin to imagine what disaster had struck the place to leave it in such a state (although I subsequently learnt that an Imperial unit had surprised some Weimarers there). After advancing a stone’s throw or two into the town, I turned back. I’d seen enough. Crossing the meadows beside the town, I came to a highway that brought me to the fine citadel of Hanau. At the first sentry post, I made as if to go on. However, two musketeers promptly came out, took an arm each, and dragged me inside.
The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus Page 7
