by Max Hennessy
Reaching the station, they discovered von Hartmann deciding to make his final stand there and bolted instead towards the Hotel Hagen. There were three or four Englishmen inside, with several women who had been touring the frontier. As the hotel was knocked to pieces about their ears, the landlord was making sure they all paid for their drinks. A shell had burst in the kitchen to spatter the ceiling with potatoes and send gravy flowing across the floor. The landlady and the maids were having hysterics and Colby and Ackroyd helped to carry them into a cellar under the backyard. The front of the hotel was riddled by this time and they could hear the French mitrailleuses going like a policeman’s rattle.
They left the Englishmen playing whist in the breakfast room, ran across an open space, crossed a deep cutting, and began to follow the railway towards Duttweiler. All around them straggling German soldiers who had lost their regiments were heading for a rendezvous at Lebach.
‘Cross between a spectacle and a farce.’ Colby decided he was probably mistaken about Prussian efficiency, because if the French pushed on now they could reach the Rhine without a pitched battle. There wasn’t an officer within two days of Duttweiler, he decided, who wouldn’t be girding up his loins for when they appeared.
Duttweiler was packed with people, and the hotel, a rambling erection with wing after wing of bedrooms on corridors along which you could drive a coach and pair, was full of foreign waifs and strays. The four Englishmen they had left playing whist in Saarbrücken were just obtaining rooms and there were several Englishwomen who were trying to get home. An officer of the American army was also there to see the fun and several British officers in mufti, as well as an English student from Bonn university who informed them that the French had not occupied Saarbrücken, had not even crossed the bridges in case they were mined, and had made no attempt to destroy the telegraph.
They didn’t stop any longer than was necessary to eat a meal, then they hired horses and rode towards Pirmasens where they picked up a train to the Rhine and headed north to Cologne and into Belgium. The French newspapers there were full of the affair. ‘Tremendous battle at Saarbrücken,’ they announced. ‘Our army has taken the offensive, crossed the frontier and invaded Prussian territory.’ The British newspapers echoed the story, even the Morning Advertiser, which was clearly not trusting Colby’s reports, so that he had to send Ackroyd to Brussels to insist that he was correct and that the ‘great battle’ was nothing more than a skirmish, and a very uncertain and unprofessional skirmish at that.
It appeared that Napoleon III had been present with his son, the Prince Imperial, having appeared in Metz only a few days before to lead the triumphal march of the army into Germany, so, sending two despatches to London – one to the Morning Advertiser, one to Wolseley – Colby joined Ackroyd in Brussels and they reached Metz the next evening.
The place was awash with soldiers and tricolours; in every square and on every one of the green islands on which the city was built, tents, horses and wagons crammed every available space. The city was still wild with excitement after the scuffle at Saarbrücken. ‘Tremendous Battle,’ the paper claimed. ‘Frossard wins Great French Victory. Prince Imperial Receives Baptism of Fire.’ But, despite the bells and the people singing and cheering in the street, Colby noticed that the newspapers were curiously empty of details and there was no sign of prisoners.
Though the army had moved to the frontier, the city was still a great camp, and a boarding house for the civilian population who had arrived to watch the war. Rattling carts and plodding companies of soldiers kept the place awake at night and military bands played all day in the Place d’Armes. It was impossible to get away from soldiers. They were everywhere, in every bar, every café, every restaurant, every square and every street. There seemed to be thousands of them – dim-eyed yokels from the Midi, boastful veterans of the Crimea, Mexico and Italy, and noisy young officers with bold eyes and tight jackets covered with braid, all eager to take advantage of the blazing emotions of the women.
Colby had managed to find beds in the hotel opposite the station. The foyer was packed with the families of officers newly arrived and desperately searching for rooms in the red-stone streets that were still strident with bugles and noisy with the tramp of feet, the clatter of rifles and the rolling of drums. Kicking, biting cavalry remounts and great Norman draught animals from the Paris buses clattered past in a bedlam of noise, and soldiers piled barrels of wine and brandy on the pavements with pyramids of boxes of navy biscuits marked with square English letters. Every alley was impeded by baggage wagons, and trains continued to chug in with lost reservists, the carriages decorated with branches of willow jammed into the lamp stanchions and wreathed round door handles. Lining up under the gas globes and spade-shaped jets in the sooty walls, the men moved off under showers of smuts from the engines, squeezing concertinas, embracing women, exchanging bread and wine and sausage, the crimson pompoms of their shakoes glowing, their voices echoing under the high, vaulted glass-and-iron of the roof. The whole city seemed to be waiting for the Napoleonic masterstroke that would bring the war to a glorious conclusion.
Among the clapping and the waving of handkerchieves, however, Colby noticed that the dour Lorrainers, almost more German than French and never enthusiastic about Napoleon, remained curiously aloof, as if they suspected that somewhere underneath the fuss things weren’t quite as they should be. How right they were he discovered at head-quarters in the Hotel Europa. A hard-bitten old brigadier was storming at a young staff officer whose buttons crowded his not very broad chest.
‘There are no palliasses and the blankets are mildewed,’ he was raging. ‘The food stinks and you can smell nothing but dishwater, rifle oil and camphor! The damned brigade’s complaining and backbiting and the commanding officers are all suffering from spavins or pains in the chest! I’d like to shoot the lot of them – you, too!’
The place was filled with bustle and the slap of saluting sentries, the clatter of wheels and hooves noisy in the courtyard, the corridors a bedlam of messengers and officials moving in a great show of efficiency which to Colby’s practised eye only hid a great deal of confusion. There were no passes available to watch the fighting. It happened to be one of de Polignac’s duties to issue them and he made no attempt to disguise his ill-will towards Colby.
‘None are being given out,’ he announced. ‘It will all be over before they can become effective!’
Since Colby had come across other men with passes, he could only assume that de Polignac, knowing of the relationship that had once existed between himself and Germaine, was eaten away with jealousy.
‘I’m here to represent my government,’ he tried. ‘I have the necessary papers.’
De Polignac stared coldly at him. ‘It makes no difference,’ he said. ‘In any case, I am suspicious of your intentions, and I would advise you to be careful. People spreading rumours or asking questions have been set on by the crowd.’
He was adamant in his refusal, continuing to claim that the war would soon be over. His manner was arrogant and confident, but the manner of the other officers made Colby suspect that headquarters was hiding facts – not only from him but from the Lorrainers and the rest of France, and he sent Ackroyd out to listen round the bars.
‘Half the bloody divisions are nothing more than the expression of a pious hope,’ he pointed out. ‘And half the reservists who’ve turned up are without uniforms or weapons.’
It didn’t take long to discover the plain unvarnished truth: regiments were without transport, whole divisions without ambulances. Rations, ammunition and supplies were short. The famous new mitrailleuse, the mechanical gun which was confidently expected to win the war, was useless because nobody knew how to work it. Thousands of reservists were still missing somewhere on the chaotic railways, drinking and plundering stores to stay alive, and the camps, seas of mud in the heavy showers, were full of other reservists without the slightest idea where their regiments were. ‘Not–’ Ackroyd added ‘–that
it’ll make much difference. Most of ’em are badly led and worse clothed. Some of them what I’ve seen must ’ave had to cut their uniforms down to see out of ’em.’
Batteries were without guns, guns without horses, and horses without harness. Half the men on the muster rolls had been discharged the year before and, because its railways ran the wrong way, the French army was having to do most of its journeying on foot. Von Hartmann had been dead right, and the exhilaration of the first days seemed to be dying rapidly in an anti-climax as the young bloods of the staff, who for the first two weeks had lounged with their absinthes under the pomegranate and oleander on the Esplanade, desperately tried to bring order to the confusion.
An oasis of sanity was provided by Germaine de Maël in the house in Avenue Serpenoise. It looked over rows of little lime trees towards the Ile du Saulcy, with glimpses among the steep-roofed mansions of the wooded slopes beyond the Ban St Martin. Unaware of the chaos, Germaine was sparkling with happiness and clearly enjoying the excitement, revelling in the sound of trumpets and drums that echoed across the narrow waterways cutting up the city. Intoxicated by the war and the fact that you could stand on any corner of any street and guarantee something exciting happening within a minute, she had given willingly in her warm-hearted way to the collections for the widows and orphans of Saarbrücken.
‘It’s all so wonderful,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘More than I ever expected. When the Emperor left for the front, they had a parade in the Place Royale and I went to watch.’ She clapped her hands with delight. ‘The square was filled with soldiers! Like huge rows of flowers!’
‘And the Emperor?’ Colby asked.
Her face fell. ‘I saw him clearly,’ she said slowly. ‘He was in an open carriage behind an escort of Cent Gardes.’ Her expression became worried. ‘Colbee, his face was grey and painted and he were ill.’
They were still talking when de Polignac appeared. He was nervous and irritable and eager for a quarrel. His manner was subdued and over-excited at the same time, as if he had received news that depressed him but nevertheless involved him deeply in desperate events. For half an hour he and Colby glared hostilely at each other, hardly hearing what Germaine had to say, facing each other like dogs circling for a fight.
In the end, unable to make any impression on them, she shooed them out, insisting that she needed rest. As Colby stepped on to the pavement, de Polignac was waiting for him and he made no attempt to hide his intention to pick a quarrel.
‘You have no right to be here,’ he said. ‘This is a military area and, as a foreign civilian, I could have you arrested.’
‘The damned place is full of Americans, English and Scandinavians,’ Colby snorted. ‘You’d have to arrest the lot.’
De Polignac’s dark eyes glittered. It was perfectly clear that it was less Colby’s interest in the war than his interest in Germaine that was troubling him. For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words.
‘It’s my belief,’ he finally spat out, ‘that you are here for no other reason than to embarrass my government and my country!’
‘And it’s my belief,’ Colby retorted coldly, ‘that you’re a stupid, posturing ass!’
He was about to stalk away when he felt the slap of de Polignac’s gloves against his cheek and he whirled, red-faced and angry. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he demanded.
‘Perhaps the English don’t know how to behave in a matter of honour,’ de Polignac said coldly. ‘That was a challenge, my friend, a demand that you face me to answer for your insult.’
Colby glared, ice cold in his rage and struggling to control his temper. ‘Duelling’s a sport for boys,’ he snapped. ‘It’s forbidden in my country!’
‘We are not in your country, Monsieur.’
As Colby stared at the pasteboard square the Frenchman had tossed down, Ackroyd appeared, a twisted grin on his long face.
‘You’ll ’ave to fight ’im,’ he said. ‘You can’t get out of it. Not and face people. Still, it’s your choice of weapons, so I’d better go and see ’is second. What do you want?’
‘Tell ’im fists.’
‘’E won’t wear that. I’d better say pistols. You were never much good with a sword.’
Feeling faintly melodramatic and foolish but fortified by a stiff brandy offered by Ackroyd, Colby dressed carefully the following morning in a grey suit buttoned to the throat on Ackroyd’s advice so that none of his white linen showed.
‘It’s misty,’ Ackroyd pointed out. ‘It’ll make you ’ard to see. And when you face ’im, stand sideways. It makes a smaller target.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ Colby growled.
‘Read it in the papers,’ Ackroyd said calmly. ‘That time when Lord Cardigan ’ad ’is set-to on Wimbledon Common. You’ll remember ’e was charged and appeared before the ’Ouse of Lords. There’s nothing to worry about,’ he went on, fussing like a mother hen. ‘It’ll soon be over and ’e won’t bother you after, because the troops ’ere are moving east as reinforcements any moment now.’
There had been a lot of showers during the night and, as Ackroyd had said, the morning was misty, especially in the low-lying areas among the streams and pools round the Ile du Saulcy. The sort of advice Ackroyd had offered appeared not to have been given to de Polignac because, when he appeared with his second and an army surgeon, he was in full uniform, a riot of colour and gold lace. Against the misty lavender background of the bushes and trees of the Ile du Saulcy he stood out like a blaze of light.
His second began to explain what they had to do. ‘I propose twenty paces,’ he said.
‘Why not make it ten?’ Colby snapped, half hoping to frighten them off with a show of aggression. ‘Or even stand face-to-face? Then I’ll have my pistol up his nose and couldn’t miss.’
De Polignac licked his lips and his adam’s apple worked.
‘Twenty paces is the customary distance,’ the second pointed out stiffly.
Colby sniffed. ‘Very well. I expect I can hit him just as easily at that distance.’
The second blinked and glanced at de Polignac who looked ready to throw up and seemed to be regretting his hastiness.
‘’E didn’t think you’d accept,’ Ackroyd whispered. ‘The second told me.’
The feeling of melodrama came again as they stood back to back and began to pace out the distance. This hadn’t been at all what Wolseley had intended, Colby decided, and he could well imagine what that icy-minded cynic would have thought if he’d seen him. Typical of the army he was struggling to change, he would no doubt have decided, and there would have been hasty telegrams telling him to report back to London at once.
As he turned towards de Polignac, he saw that, backed by the dark shadows of the bushes and facing fully front, the Frenchman presented a perfect target. He seemed nervous and, moving his feet to give himself a firm stance, he immediately lifted his pistol and pointed it at Colby. Standing sideways as Ackroyd had advised, Colby kept his own weapon hanging at his side. De Polignac, who seemed uncertain at the way things had turned out, kept the pistol pointing at Colby as if to frighten him, but he held it too long with his arm outstretched and it began to waver. As he pulled the trigger, Colby saw the flash at the muzzle and heard the ball whistle overhead. Watching the slow drifting smoke, he stood silently with the pistol still at his side. Whether de Polignac had deliberately aimed high, he had no idea but suddenly irritated by the thought that the Frenchman had expected him to back away, he decided he might as well do a bit of frightening himself.
For a long time he stared at de Polignac, the pistol still at his side, and he saw the Frenchman’s second fidget nervously and the doctor lift a hand to adjust his hat. De Polignac stared back at him, his face pale.
Lifting the pistol, his arm crooked, Colby held the weapon firmly against his chest. De Polignac swallowed but he remained rigid and unmoving. At least the stupid idiot wasn’t lacking in courage, Colby thought. Perhaps it would be a good idea to put the b
all between his eyes to prove it. Instead, he straightened his arm quickly, deliberately lifted the pistol, fired into the air and tossed the weapon on to the grass.
De Polignac had swayed slightly but his feet hadn’t moved. His second spoke to him as if to start him from the trance he was in and he drew a deep breath, turned abruptly and walked to his horse.
‘The stupid little gadget can now tell his friends he’s fought a duel,’ Colby growled. ‘It should be good for a drink or two or a kiss from a girl.’
‘I think not.’ It was the surgeon who was picking up the pistol and pushing it into its case who spoke. ‘He’s moving east with the army immediately. We all are.’
As they returned, it was clear that the anxiety at headquarters was beginning to seep into the city. A battle had been fought, they heard, but so far nothing was known and it didn’t pay to enquire too deeply. The outbreak of spy-mania, of which de Polignac had warned, had resulted in people being crammed into police wagons merely for being blond or tall.
A few scattered detachments were still moving off as Colby headed for the Avenue Serpenoise for breakfast. Germaine’s boudoir was an affair of lace, chaises longues and filmy curtains, and she didn’t seem to consider it at all unusual to receive him in bed. She ordered coffee, eyeing him gravely with her huge eyes. ‘Would you prefer to sleep a little first?’ she asked.
Colby studied her thoughtfully as he sat down by her feet and, swept away by his enthusiasm and the thought that if de Polignac had been more determined and a better shot he could well have been dead, found himself proposing. ‘I think we should go and visit the Maire,’ he said.
Germaine gazed at him, her eyes amused. ‘What are you suggesting?’ she asked.
