Trouble in the Wind

by Chris Kennedy

  Montagne saluted crisply and held the pose until Emperor Napoleon glanced at him and gave a half-hearted salute out of annoyance. Montagne felt his legs perceptibly shake. He’d never been in the presence of the Emperor, having only seen the great general and leader from a distance during the marches. His face was calm, almost idyllic, in the midst of the chaotic movement home. Even as the musket-fire from the French infantry roared through the approaching night, the Emperor seemed completely at ease. At his left shoulder sat another captain, wearing the shoulder brocade of a personal aide-de-camp.

  Montagne boarded the sleigh and sat in a small, curved portion of the sleigh barely deep enough, or wide enough, for him. Facing the rear, he stared into the faces of Emperor Napoleon, his aide, and the driver perched above them on an elevated seat.

  The aide nodded a cool welcome. “You are the translator, yes? Captain de Montagne?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Napoleon’s eyes flashed to him. “You are fluent in the languages of these heathens?”

  “I am, sir,” Montagne swallowed. “Russian, German, and several of the Slavic dialects.”

  The Emperor squinted at him and there was distrust in his voice. “How did you come to this ability?”

  “My parents traveled extensively in this region, sir.” Montagne replied. “My father is a professor at École Polytechnique. He teaches history.”

  Napoleon harrumphed loudly. “Perhaps I should have had you craft the surrender of Czar Nicholas. A fluent son of a historian might have done a better job. Nicholas might have capitulated instead of refusing.”

  Montagne met the Emperor’s eye, but said nothing in reply, as discretion required. Truth be told, the region surrounding them had never truly been peaceful and likely never would.

  A violent flurry of rifle-fire erupted somewhere behind them—sporadic, harassing fire of the Cossacks. The brief attack ended after two methodical volleys from whichever company honored the threat and ended it, as they always did. The harassers vanished into the night.

  “Damned Cossacks,” Napoleon said. His face screwed up in disgust. “Men without honor never stand and fight.”

  “Shall I send a messenger, sir?” the aide-de-camp asked.

  Napoleon shook his head. “They will fire and flee. Let them go.”

  With the crack of the driver’s whip, the sleigh lurched forward.

  The route of march for the Grand Armeé wound through deep forests along paths barely wide enough for the army to pass in their standard formation. As such, the Emperor, and his commanders directed the artillery to move forward and set the pace, which in the deepening snow seemed fittingly glacial. Still, the troops cheered their Emperor and he seemed to relish seeing them all again before leaving them in the midst of the brutal Russian winter.

  There was no conversation that included Montagne. The aide and Napoleon communicated quietly, reviewing notes and dispatches. The younger captain’s black hair came to a point between his eyes and his sullen face bothered Montagne for a reason he couldn’t quite identify. Every time the aide’s eyes flashed to meet his own, the distrust became palpable. Montagne turned his thoughts to his birth home in the south of France. There were no vicious winters there. He couldn’t remember ever seeing his breath in the cold until they’d moved to Paris for his father to join the faculty of École Polytechnique. They’d spent two months of every year at their summer home in the hills above Nice. He hadn’t visited there for four years or more and the sudden longing for the warm sun and beautiful beaches on the nearby coasts threatened to bring tears to his eyes.

  His reverie ended with the sudden stop of the sleigh. He rocked backward, slamming his shoulder blades into the curved railing. Napoleon and his aide pitched forward in their seats. The look on the Emperor’s face changed from annoyance to rage. He stood abruptly, casting aside the blanket of furs from across his lap.

  Montagne saw the Emperor’s eyes flash across the formation and lock onto the nearest officers he could see.

  “You! Get your men and push this sleigh. Now!”

  A horde of soldiers splashed through the mud and leaned against the sleigh. Montagne stood from his seat, ready to jump out and assist them, but Napoleon barked, “Sit down!” and he sat like a scolded child.

  Eventually, with numerous men grunting and pushing, the sleigh cleared the far side of the creek, but did not proceed further. The driver shouted at the soldiers, but to no avail.

  Still standing, Napoleon took in the scene. He bellowed at the driver, “Move!”

  The driver struggled with the reins. “Sir, we must halt the army. We cannot pass here because of the aid station. The trail is too narrow.”

  Napoleon surveyed their surroundings and pointed at a sparsely wooded area across the muddy stream where fresh stumps poked through the snow. “There! Take us up that hill and we will go around.”

  Montagne recognized this place from their march months before. The Grand Armeé’s supply trains had cleared paths through the forest as they moved and sometimes paralleled the route of march. In this case, they had cut a wagon-width trail through the narrow growth of birch trees to get the supply trains to this particular ford. If memory served him correctly, there would be another cut area on the far side.

  The aide turned to him in concern. “Sir, you will be away from the army. We do not know where the trail may lead.”

  Napoleon gave his aide a dismissive glance and looked at the driver again. “I know precisely where that trail leads. Go around the aid station.”

  The driver shouted commands to the marching army. They milled about and gradually parted to allow the sleigh through. A few soldiers stared at the sleigh with harsh glances while most gawked, wide-eyed at their beloved leader standing in his sleigh and directing them as a conductor would an orchestra. The driver guided the sleigh into the hastily created path, through the creek bed, then successfully onto the other side.

  As they climbed the small, sparsely forested hill on the narrow trail, Emperor Napoleon sat down and brought the blankets over himself again. He glanced at his aide. “Ensure the driver understands to find the first cut back to the Grand Armeé. We camped in this place on the march to Moscow, and I recall an access on the far side of the clearing where the wagons were able to move around the swollen creek during the summer. Now it is frozen mud. The damned thing slows me down again!”

  His aide relayed the instructions to the driver, and Napoleon looked across to Montagne. In the orange light of the solitary lantern above and behind them, his eyes were flinty. “General Caulaincourt informed you of my intent?”

  “He did, sir.”

  Napoleon turned to stare forward. “I cannot fight a war in two places. Therefore, if the Russians do not wish to fight, they are not worth the efforts of our armies. In Paris, I will expunge my detractors, reconvene the government, and we will focus our affairs elsewhere. To hell with this place.”

  Montagne fought against asking the question on his tongue. With the advance of the Grand Armeé, most of Europe had fallen under French rule. Aside from Russia, which Emperor Napoleon had now apparently removed from his aspirations, his only other possible target for conquest would be England. Yet the British were embroiled in an armed dispute with the American colonies, who were allies of the French. The Emperor said no more, instead he closed his eyes and lowered his face into the protective warmth of his collar.

  The weather changed and large flakes of snow fell in ethereal curtains. The fresh precipitation muted the sounds of the army behind them as they crested a small hill that led to a clearing. The driver turned to follow the treeline, stark white birches with naked branches. Montagne leaned over the side of the sleigh to peer into the darkness. With the nearest lantern hanging above him, Montagne could see only a few yards in front of the horses. Their steps faltered and slowed. As the crack of the driver’s whip sounded, the horses reared and skidded to a halt in the snow, Montagne saw a single, bearded man dressed in heavy furs blocking t
heir path. A Cossack.

  He held a rifle in his hands.

  * * *

  “Allez!” the driver called to the man and waved his whip as if to sweep the Cossack from the narrow path. Montagne spun in his seat to peer between the horses at the scene. The lone man did not move. He stood in a narrow space at the edge of a wider clearing. Two trees, barely far apart enough for the sleigh to pass, rose on either side of him.

  Again, the driver called and actually cracked the whip over the horses. Unable to move, they whinnied and stamped their hooves only a few feet from the Cossack. Montagne glanced back to the Emperor who sat with his eyes closed as if trying to sleep. The aide looked up from his notes and met Montagne’s eyes. After a moment, the aide slid the papers into a case and reached for a pistol tucked into the blankets at his feet. He nodded at Montagne. Taking his cue, Montagne stood in the sleigh and turned to face the Cossack.

  “Move,” he called to the man in Russian. The Cossack did not move, and he tried again in several dialects, including Latin and Greek. The fur-adorned man remained still, his rifle trained on the driver. He did not even look at Montagne nor did he speak.

  In the silence, Montagne heard approaching riders. The team of horses pulling the sleigh startled and quivered in the snow. A thunderous roar of voices screaming something unintelligible raced into the clearing from the right.

  More Cossacks!

  Montagne ducked down in the sleigh. The aide handed him a pistol and crouched, assuming a protective stance in front of the Emperor. Montagne did the same and watched the Cossacks charge out of the night, directly at them. They raised their voices in an unintelligible scream, and Montagne raised his pistol and trained it on the closest targets.

  Steady. Be steady.

  The twilight reflected off the low clouds providing just enough light to see dozens of riders waving rifles rode down upon them. He whirled to his left, to the near side of the clearing at the thunderous sound of more horses approaching. Montagne saw the lone man no longer stood before the sleigh and realized what the Cossack had done.

  An ambush! Here is where we will die.

  The familiar shapes of the Imperial Guard Horse Chasseurs charged into the clearing and raced toward the galloping Cossacks. Several fired rifles from horseback, which were unlikely to hit anything. The Cossacks, however, returned the gesture both at the cavalry and at the sleigh. Rounds impacted the small sleigh near where he crouched, and Montagne dropped toward the floor next to the aide. Napoleon did not. The Emperor sat rigid in his seat, his eyes following the attack with a critical gaze.

  The Chasseurs met the Cossack charge in the middle of the small clearing. Men on horseback joined in hand-to-hand combat. The guards, swords in hand, hacked and swung at the Cossacks who defended themselves with their rifles and what appeared to be axes. Men fell from their horses. More rifle-fire filled the small clearing. Another surge of Cossacks charged into the fray, threatening to overwhelm the small detachment of cavalry; they were closer, and faster, than the first charge. The aide stood, centered his pistol and fired. One of the lead Cossacks tumbled into the snow.

  Emboldened, Montagne rose from his crouch and aimed. With the barrel centered on the Cossack closest to them, he squeezed the trigger. In the burst of smoke from the barrel, Montagne expected to see a similar result, but the rider screamed and brandished an axe high above his head as he closed the distance to the sleigh.

  Montagne ducked into the sleigh and the aide handed another loaded pistol to him.

  “Fire, Montagne! Keep firing!”

  He took the weapon, resumed his firing position and felt a strange calm wash over him as he again centered the barrel on the target and fired. The rider tumbled into the snow not forty feet away. He felt the aide tap him on the leg with the other pistol, again loaded and ready to fire.

  So fast?

  Voices yelled from the forest to his right and snapped his thought off like a dry twig. A regiment of infantry ran up the snow-covered hill and took up firing positions at the edge of the tree line. The driver sat frozen, watching the battle before them. Napoleon’s aide sat next to Montagne, his eyes on the dim battlefield.

  A volley of rifle fire-tore into the Cossacks. Montagne flinched at the closeness of it all even as he raised a pistol and fired again. This time, the aide joined him. The Cossacks whirled as one and charged down on the exposed infantry, for the moment, forgetting their target. A second volley was fired at almost point-blank range and many Cossacks and their horses crashed into the snow, but not all of them. The maniacal attackers tore into the infantry. Riflemen came up with bayonets and stabbed at them, eventually knocking them from their horses, but not before there were more casualties.

  The French Chasseurs circled and regrouped in the center of the clearing and charged toward the Cossacks fighting the exposed infantry. As if in a dream, the cavalry closed the distance at surreal speed. Every weapon was clearly visible, sword or rifle, as they brandished and fired. The Cossacks roared in defiance and whirled against the guards before turning back to the east and galloping for their lives. Some fired over their shoulders in a hopeful attempt to take down one of the guards, but they soon hunched forward on their mounts and ran.

  * * *

  “Driver!” Napoleon roared as he stood abruptly behind Montagne and the aide. “Move!”

  Startled to action, the driver raised his reins and prepared to snap them across the backs of the team when a single rifle fired from darkness.

  BOOM!

  Montagne felt the rush of air as a musket ball rocketed through the air past them. He flinched, eyes closed, expecting to feel the impact. A heartbeat passed, then he opened his eyes and turned to the wide-eyed aide. The lone Cossack stepped out from behind a large tree, his musket barrel curling smoke into the night air. It dawned on Montagne that the weapon wasn’t pointed at either himself or the aide. Nor had the Emperor been struck.

  As one, they looked at the driver on the seat behind the sleigh. The top of the man’s head was missing.

  Montagne raised his pistol and pointed it at the Cossack as he stepped once more into the narrow path. The Cossack angrily slammed his musket into the snow. He simply stared at the sleigh for a long moment. Montagne hesitated to pull the trigger.

  He wishes to die.

  “Your army plundered our homes. They drank themselves into a stupor while they burned my family alive in my barn. Imagine losing everything to a people with whom you had no quarrel. You wanted a war but leaders never feel the pain of the innocents who die at their hand. Now, you will understand the toll.”

  The hair on the back of Montagne’s head stood erect as he translated. Napoleon’s stern face sneered and his teeth bared. “Get that fucking peasant out of my way! Kill him now!” Napoleon screeched, pointing at the Cossack.

  BOOM!

  Montagne flinched as the sound seemed to come from extremely close behind them. Napoleon’s face grew still and he tucked his right hand inside his jacket in a characteristic gesture. Montagne saw the Emperor look down at his hand. He removed it from the jacket and Montagne saw bright red blood. Napoleon reached for the sleigh’s curved railing with suddenly trembling hands.

  Beyond the sleigh, the fur-clad shadow fled into the darkness. Montagne turned the pistol on the target, centered, and fired in one smooth movement. The figure fell forward into the snow.

  BOOM!

  The aide fired his pistol seemingly next to Montagne’s ear. He whipped around to see the aide had executed the Cossack, and was now lowering the pistol. There was movement between them. The aide snatched at the Emperor’s shoulder but missed. Napoleon pitched forward against the railing of the sleigh and fell forward, tumbling face first into the snow.

  “Montagne! Help me!” the aide called as he leapt from the sleigh into the snow.

  Montagne knelt in the snow next to the aide. The other captain cradled the Emperor’s head across his legs and peered down into his still face. Montagne stared into sightless eyes
for a long moment and turned his face up to see Caulaincourt shuffling toward them.

  In that moment, words failed him. His ability to translate quickly and correctly vanished. Emotions overwrote his abilities. Mouth agape, he closed it and mentally shook himself to report.

  “Sir, the Emperor is dead.”

  Caulaincourt removed his ornate headgear and placed it over his chest. The man’s eyes closed in silent prayer. Montagne tried to pray but could not as the company of infantry swarmed protectively around the sleigh. Several of them moved into the forest and retrieved the body of the Cossack he’d killed. As they laid the body next to the man, he saw the size difference and felt tears forming in his eyes.

  My God. The Emperor is dead and France is in disarray. I failed to protect him.

  And I have killed a child.

  What have I done?

  Montagne closed his own eyes and tucked his chin to his chest. He knew the others would assume his grief for their Emperor, and while some of it certainly was, he felt more for those displaced and affected by war. People whom armies and generals never considered.

  Teeth clenched together, Montagne fought for control and when he had it, opened his eyes to find Caulaincourt staring at him. The general’s eyes were somber, but focused. He knelt next to Napoleon’s body and grasped the dead man’s right hand affectionately.

  They sat in silence for a moment, eyes on their fallen Emperor until the infantry returned and ringed them with quiet murmurs of shock and dismay. He found his voice. “What should we do, sir?”