The trooper then approached Fandrich, pulled out a flintlock from his belt, and reached out with the other hand. The exchange had brought the soldier, who she could now see was bearded, parallel to Fandrich’s front door so that Jeanne’s point of view was presented with his right profile. She saw Herr Fandrich instinctively covering his pouch with his right hand, shaking his head and smiling the same genial smile as with the officer at the wharf. But these men were not officers. The bearded soldier now standing three yards from Fandrich pointed the pistol at the boater’s chest. There followed a short expletive, then a click and a cracking fizz. Herr Fandrich crumbled to the ground.
Jeanne watched, her eyes wide as Dutch guilders, as the bearded soldier bent down and pulled the leather pouch from Herr Fandrich’s shoulder, lifting the limp arm as if he had just slaughtered a goat.
Jeanne placed her hands over her mouth to muffle the sounds of her horror. ‘My God, my God!’ she murmured with incredulity while the soldiers now entered what looked like a brief wrangle. The other soldier, who sported only whiskers, shook his head, passed back the torch, and walked to the alleyway on the other side of the lane. Looking left and right, the bearded trooper then followed his battle buddy into the alley which led to the Jewish district.
Numbed, trembling, and petrified, she pulled herself from the edge of the alcove and pressed her body back against the bakery front. She let herself sink down the door, her back remaining flat against it, until she was sitting on the heels of her boots. ‘Dear God. Where are you?’ she murmured, her eyes transfixed in the middle distance. Then she felt a tugging at her shawl, and two small hands alighted upon her shoulders. Paul gently shook her. ‘Mother, Mother, come on, Mother. We cannot stay here!’
There came another thunderous crumbling sound, this time of bricks and mortar. A house must have caved in a few streets away. It shook her from her torpor, and she looked squarely at her son as the sound of marching boots filled them both with urgency and a new dread. Advancing a few paces into the main thoroughfare, through the dust and smoke she saw with horror a battery of field artillery filing in through the west gate, in a blurry stream of crimson and fire. Torches in hand, they were turning southward towards the cathedral.
She could not bear the thought of a confrontation with any soldier, let alone with an entire battalion. And what would she say if they were stopped?
But then, glancing in unison with Paul to her right towards what Fandrich had called the Jewish district, they perceived another route out. A narrow side street slanted off the main road to the city wall, or rather, where the wall had stood. For at the end of the backstreet, there was a gaping breach of fallen stone where she could make out the hazy figures of a few city dwellers climbing through it, fleeing for their lives.
The air was growing thicker with smoke blowing in from the houses ablaze at the north wall. But she realised that mixing with the fleeing townsfolk was their only chance of escape. She reached for her son’s hand, and needing to reconnect with humanity, brought it to her cheek, cupped and kissed it before striding back to the corner to fetch her sack that she had taken off her back.
She took a last glimpse at Herr Fandrich, lying on the ground at the end of the lane. But to Paul’s surprise, she just stopped and stared. ‘My God!’ she said, unblinking. She could have sworn she saw an arm move. It flexed again from where it had been dumped by the soldier and flopped to the boater’s side.
‘He must still be alive!’ said Paul, looking up at his mother.
‘Yes, and we cannot leave him there!’
‘But what if they come back?’
Jeanne had grasped the principle of the layout of the city, which consisted of main thoroughfares with lanes running off them. These lanes were also criss-crossed by narrower lanes or alleyways just wide enough for a handcart to pass through. In the boater’s lane, Jeanne now noticed two alleys that must give access to side entrances into yards and houses, tucked away within a block of buildings. She pointed to the one a dozen yards down from the crossroads where she and Paul were standing.
‘That must run round to the alley further down, where the soldiers first came out,’ she said. Then she looked down at her son and gave his hand a squeeze, and they made a dash across the mudded lane, neither seeing nor caring what they were treading in.
They followed the alleyway around the block of humble dwellings to the alley nearest Fandrich’s house by the north wall.
The soldiers who had continued into the alleyway on the other side of the street were nowhere in sight. Jeanne and Paul scurried to Fandrich to find him drenched in his own blood, but still breathing. He let out a groan as Jeanne and Paul dragged him by the boots into the dark alley, away from the lookout tower that threatened to crush Fandrich’s house at any moment.
‘He’s badly injured, and he’s too heavy for us to carry,’ said Jeanne, on her knees, inspecting the wound to the boater’s bloody chest. She was back to herself, sharp and practical, and was thinking that, if seen, it would be plausible enough to pass themselves off as the spouse and son of this injured townsman. ‘We’ll need a handcart or something to carry him . . .’ she said, turning back to Paul. But the boy was already running back down the alley. ‘Paul, come back!’ she called out in a loud whisper.
‘Saw a handcart on the way,’ said the boy, twisting his torso round to answer in an equally loud whisper. ‘Won’t be long,’ he said, then shot off. She could do nothing else but let him go.
She was wondering how they would carry the boater over piles of tumbledown stone in a handcart when Fandrich half opened his eyes. He turned his head, and, in a faint voice, he said: ‘Leave me . . . Madame, save yourselves now . . .’
But Jeanne’s attention was elsewhere, and she put a finger to her lips as the sound of boots and French voices drew closer in the lane.
‘Where’s he bloody gone!’ said one of the voices which, she presently ascertained, belonged to the bearded trooper who had shot the boater down and stolen his pouch. ‘Told you, man! We shoulda thrown him into his bloody shack and torched it!’
‘He’s been dragged,’ said the other soldier. The pair of them cautiously followed the trail of blood across the cobbles towards the alleyway, a few houses further up.
Jeanne had silently got to her feet, had backtracked down the alley a few yards, then had stopped at a high wooden gate, painted green. She silently tried the latch to find it open, pushed the gate to reveal a boater’s yard.
From the entrance of the alley, the soldiers saw the body on the floor, five yards in. They caught a glimpse of a woman’s hand as the green gate closed. ‘You go through the house!’ said the bearded trooper in a low voice to his accomplice before striding to the green wooden gate, where he paused for a moment. He stroked his moustache and lasciviously squeezed his chin with his free hand. Then he booted the gate open to reveal a yard that contained a handcart, ropes, and an array of hooks, short masts, and cordage. He also saw a handsome woman, no doubt the wife of the man he had shot, running to the back door.
Jeanne had her hand on the iron handle when she heard the sound of boots resonating in the corridor inside the house.
The bearded trooper to her rear slowly laid down his torch by the gate as if he did not want to frighten a wild animal.
Jeanne, on turning, noticed Herr Fandrich’s leather satchel slung over the trooper’s shoulder, and another larger, bulging bag as she eased her way slowly back into the court.
‘You’ll do, my pretty German maid!’ said the trooper, moving slowly towards the handcart that stood between them. ‘Don’t be shy now . . .’
Knowing what he had done, knowing what he was about to attempt, Jeanne stood erect, superior, no longer wanting to hide behind a false identity. And in a controlled, fierce, and forceful voice, she said: ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, young man!’
The trooper, momentarily taken aback by the woman’s outburst in French, glanced over to his fellow looter, now standing on the step of the ba
ck door.
‘Bet she’s a Huguenot toff,’ said the fellow looter.
‘Are ya?’ said the bearded trooper, looping the syllables in the direction of Jeanne, who stood, steely-eyed, in anticipation of an attack from both sides.
But the accomplice looter just chortled and said: ‘We all know what happens to Huguenots, don’t we? One good thing, though, she ain’t likely to tell tales on us, is she?’
‘What d’ya mean?’
‘Come on, man, now’s not the time. We got Jew Street to do before it burns. And she’s hardly gonna be running into the arms of the captain, is she!’
‘Oh, I ain’t letting this one pass, colleague. I’ll catch you up in a mo’. . .’
‘Suit yourself, man,’ said the fellow soldier, leaving his mate alone in the yard with the Huguenot toff.
The bearded soldier, with one sly eye on the dame, placed his musket against the wall, unstrapped his cumbersome bag, and let it drop to the ground. He could see her trying to figure out which way to run, her eyes flitting this way and that, but there was no chance of getting out; he had her cornered. It was cute, though, and all the raunchier given the fact he had never had the pleasure of a toff, let alone a Huguenot toff.
‘You stay away from me!’ growled Jeanne, and tried to think of something better to say to get him talking, to delay the inevitable. If she could make him turn around the cart, she could grab his musket. But then what? How did it work? Did you just pull the trigger? What if it wasn’t loaded?
But the soldier was in no mood for playing cat and mouse. He had much to do, many houses to plunder, and he was not going to waste any more time. He just wanted to shoot his bolt and be done. So he feigned to approach slowly; then, in a surge of brute strength, he rammed the handcart against the fence, cutting off her escape route. He grasped her, pulled her towards him.
She struggled, beat his chest, scratched his beard as he spun her round like a puppet and forced her face down onto the handcart deck.
He clenched her from behind, squeezed her pleasing bust, and latched onto her by the hips. Then, keeping a strong, firm weight in the small of her back with a forearm, he began lifting up her skirts.
She roared with rage, managed to wriggle free, twist herself round, and pull him to her so he could not get a swing in. She felt for his side, gripped his knife, pulled it out of its sheath. But he smiled a mischievous, lubricious smile, wrapped his hand around her slender wrist, and directed the knife to her throat.
‘Just relax, duchess,’ he said in a low, menacing voice, ‘and everything will be all right . . .’ He pushed her flat against the cart deck, nudged her thighs apart with his knees. But then, he keeled over.
She looked up at the space previously occupied by the bearded face and saw the butt of the soldier’s musket, then the intense brow of Frantz as she dropped the knife onto the cart.
Frantz reached out a hand to her, fetched her up off the handcart deck.
‘Thank you,’ she said, brushing her skirts down. Bending over the soldier lying unconscious on the ground, she wrenched the leather satchel from over his shoulder. ‘Your father’s,’ she said, handing it to Frantz. ‘He is still alive . . .’
‘I saw,’ said Frantz, urgently turning back towards the yard gate where Paul was now standing. There was no time for awkwardness. After Jeanne persuaded Frantz to refrain from finishing off the soldier with his own flintlock, they directed their steps through the alleyways and backstreet to the north wall.
Frantz transported Herr Fandrich, still barely conscious, in the handcart. Within ten minutes, they were at the breach in the wall by the Jewish district. Frantz carried his father in his arms while Jeanne and Paul dragged the cart over the rubble to the other side.
By now, French troopers were torching the houses in all districts, throwing firebombs onto thatches and detonating mines. Townsfolk who had refused to leave were pleading with soldiers on foot and officers on horseback. But it was clear these men had a job to do and, ignoring the protestations, went about it in a businesslike fashion, no doubt to distance themselves from the calamity of their acts. A few who did answer the protestations more often than not did so in jeers and scorn, then set light to cloth and thatch, like they were taking pleasure in braving the forbidden but exquisite act of destruction.
Frantz, gritted teeth and bare arms hard as brass, wheeled his father behind Jeanne and Paul as they melded into the stream of townsfolk fleeing to the high ground among the trees. These were the ones who had not wanted to abandon their homes until the last moment. Now they marched onwards in silence, their ancestral city all ablaze behind them.
*
The appalling clamour of crumbling mortar, followed by the dreadful cries of people losing their heritage, had intermittently broken Jeanne’s slumber that night under the trees.
Now the skyline over the city of Worms was paling. In an hour, it would be day. In an hour, the full horror of the destructive binge would no longer be an incredible nightmare: it would be a reality etched in their memories. Already some folk were stirring; men stoking fires, women heating broth with whatever edibles they had been able to take with them.
As Jeanne sat back against a pine tree, Paul’s head on her lap, she glanced round at Frantz, sitting by his father who was laid stretched out on rags. ‘How is he now?’ she said in a soft voice.
‘Not different since the doctor dug out the bullet,’ said Frantz, keeping his voice down so as not to wake the boy. He spoke in French, with scatterings of German when the French words eluded him.
‘What did the doctor say?’ said Jeanne. ‘If he makes it through the night, he might recover, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘He lost a lot of blood, though.’
‘And he would be dead by now if it was not for you.’
‘And so would I be if it weren’t for you, Frantz,’ said Jeanne, touching his forearm.
‘You can thank your boy for that, ein gescheiter Bursche! He hailed us down as we were putting out, ran along the wharf yelling out till we heard him . . .’
‘What will you do now?’
‘Take him to my uncle’s, where I think my family are. If he dies, I want him to be with family . . .’
‘What can I do?’
‘There’s nothing more; this is not your war. You must continue westward as you started, Madame Delpech. I heard some folk will be heading that way on foot. Go with them to Bingen. Once past Bingen, you’ll be safe. That is where the Rhine narrows into a deep gorge, and you will be able to travel safely by river the rest of the way.’
ELEVEN
Three days after the torching of Worms, Jeanne and the boy sat with blistered feet on the high ground overlooking the port town of Bingen.
It lay huddled around a knoll upon which stood a run-down medieval castle. Down by the riverbank, she could easily make out a horde clustered around the landing stage. A handful of French soldiers were supervising the Palatinate exiles who were queuing to embark on the next rivercraft.
She took a moment to contemplate the beautiful spring morning. Wild flowers stood all abloom in the meadow around her. Only the hum of flying insects and the distant clonk of cowbells interrupted the peace.
The previous days had not been too unkind either. Whenever it showered, at least she and Paul had been able to find shelter in a barn or among wide-leafed trees with the rest of the contingent they were travelling with. And being able to answer calls of nature in a timely fashion—without the embarrassment of having to hold oneself over a latrine at the stern of a moving vessel—by far made up for her aching feet.
She had a thought for Herr Fandrich. He had made it through the night. After sunrise, he had opened his eyes and, like Frantz, bid her and the boy farewell. She had insisted on helping them in their onward journey to their relation’s house. But Frantz had urged them to move on with the group of folk who were taking to the road. And if experience had taught Jeanne one thing, it was to travel in company, the more the me
rrier, although of course there was nothing merry about these bedraggled exiles.
A great many of the townsfolk of Worms had remained in the vicinity with the intention of rebuilding their homes from the ruins of the inferno. But a whole host of them had decided they could no longer bring themselves to return to a charred home in the knowledge that, even if they rebuilt it like in ’77, it stood a fair chance of being burnt down again. Such was the fate of those living in the Palatinate, straddled as it was across the contested river Rhine.
They had trekked across the hills of the Palatinate, passing haymakers agog and shepherds agape. Oft-times, they were able to shelter in barns where, since heifers and cows now stayed out at night, they had the good fortune to put their heads down on straw. Time and again, they witnessed the horrors of the French King’s scorched earth policy. It left standing no building that could serve the armies of the League of Augsburg, and forced more devastated people to join the ranks of the exiled. And yet, the war had not officially begun.
It put Jeanne’s own predicament into perspective. And now, as the vast majority of the forty or fifty fellow travellers had done, she put it to the far reaches of her mind and focussed on the present moment, the lovely and precious present, no longer giving a thought for the future.
Having kicked off her boots, she was now rubbing her swollen feet. ‘I can no longer put one foot in front of the other,’ she said.
‘Neither can I,’ said Paul, who was sinking his bare toes into a lush patch of clover while resting his chin on his knees.
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