CHAPTER XII
Wherein we watch our hero's energetic progress toward the Austrian Capital
Etienne rode hard toward the east. He pushed the post horses and he pushed himself. The pain returned but he persevered past it. He used it to keep himself going. It was not an excuse to quit. He would not seek ways to fail. Riding long hours by day, he would hire carriages at night and sleep surprisingly deep within them. For all the rattling and rocking, his exhaustion was a tonic for repose. Perhaps too, maybe he was sleeping the sleep of the Just. Awakening at the frequent stops for changing horses, he would stumble achingly out to make the necessary transactions and payments and often gain food where he could. Pulling himself back in to the carriage was a painful exercise yet the youth did not groan and there was no one to complain to if he wished to.
"Just get on with it."
He looked forward to the riding. Back in control, there was a sense of energy and power flowing up from the horses that encouraged him to enthusiasm and strength. It is a cliché but the wind through the hair truly invigorated him.
********************
The weather was particularly fine for mid March.
Having reequipped himself with new wardrobe elements including a very helpful greatcoat, the adventurer could be undeterred by even serious rains. Amusingly, to Etienne, the purchases resulted in him owning more now than he had ever owned in his life. It was a large bag slung over the flanks of the steed and when the cavalry sabre and the duelling pistol case were included, the load was becoming considerable. It railed against his experience as an infantryman to own anything that did not fit into a backpack. He needed it all though not because he would have cause to change clothes often but instead because he would need to be seen to be the type of man who would. Sadly, the Princess did not participate in the fittings and selections of the sets of jackets, waistcoats, shirts and trousers. She occupied that morning getting him a new passport.
His adieu with the Princess was a sweet mix of formality and affection. There was no talk of promises, whisperings, or regrets. There was no suggestion from either that their paths would ever again cross. They each seemed perfectly grateful of the other's company and support and it had the air of a business transaction successfully concluded between good friends. Yes, there was one other item added to Etienne's inventory: a scented kerchief. This favour might serve him well against despair in future.
The passport had M. Etienne Neville travelling to Vienna on business for the Duchy of Parma. Pauline still had some very good friends in the administration after all and he had it in hand by 10 o'clock that morning. Hopefully, it would not be necessary if he looked and acted his part. Customs and Border houses for all the small Principalities and Duchies of northern Italy were universally lax. He had a cover story worked out: His errand was to the Congress of Vienna on behalf of Parma and Duchess Marie-Louise.
******************
"The Congress? The Congress is disbanded. War was declared." was the suspicious reply.
Etienne's comeback was, he thought, inspired. He glanced warily about the Bassano post house and then leaned in to whisper like a conspirator to the agent, saying "Exactly." with such weight of import that the Italian felt that he was privy a special secret.
Moments later, our hero was on the road again.
*************
One night while rumbling along within some carriage, Etienne used the last hours of light to inspect those duelling pistols. In the act of cleaning and loading the lavish weapons, something about the firing mechanisms caught his attention. The installed flints of each weapon had the remnants of waxy residue upon them. Was it candle wax? Etienne nodded to himself as he cleaned away the remaining aspects of this coating and ensured that they would not misfire in his charge.
The boy was no connoisseur of pistols but the weapons did satisfy him. Indeed, he was proud to bear such refined instruments and thought that should he find the time and opportunity, he might like to discharge one. He wondered, for a time, which of matching pistols was the one he had used in the encounter with the Prince. Were they weighted identically? Was there a mark on one that did not echo on the other? His light was lost before he found any significant identifier and he slept.
******************
While enjoying lunch at a roadside Inn, a short column of Austrians trooped forward. It was line infantry with neither artillery nor cavalry attachments - an unsupported brigade making its way westward. There was, it ought be said, a fair moment of nervousness for the Frenchman at being so intimately close to enemy regiments but he collected himself, remembering that he was not a soldier at this time and he was not at war.
Gathering his confidence then, Etienne stood and watched the footsloggers go past from the window. The Innkeeper and his family watched nervously beside him. Thankfully, the white column continued without stopping to provision. That told Etienne that they had only recently begun their march: within a couple of days. There hadn't been time for them to outstrip their supply columns. As the several thousand men sauntered by in ranks three abreast, it struck the witness that he had not seen a command element at the head of the column. They would be at the back then, the officers and their entourage.
It was this realization that prompted Etienne to pay his bill and make a hurried yet quiet exit. He knew senior officers enough to know that they would certainly stop at the Inn so he was promptly on his own way.
***************
On Friday morning, the Malborghetto post-house saw Etienne dismounting sore from the morning's exertions. He would be glad to be rid of this particular nag. Her step was irregular and so now, it seemed, was his spine. His own first steps were awkward. Pausing to stretch his muscles out, he took note of the medieval alpine town. It not so different from a French establishment of the same size yet it was better kept displaying a greater degree of cleanliness. Fresh whitewash coloured the walls. Flowerpots adorned the windowsills. Ominously overlooking the settlement was Hensel Castle's with its cannon trained upon the narrow valley that crossed into Illyria. Etienne did not need the fortress to remind him that this was a tense border town. He studied the shallow chasm with its swiftly flowing river to his right and the sharp mountains immediately to his left. There was not a lot of decision-making left to do. He had opted to take the Old Roman road rather than the modern route through Osoppo and Caporetto. It ought to be quieter. It ought to be more careless and the closer he got to Austria proper, the more careful he must be. After giving up the mount, he slung his possessions over a shoulder and under an arm to troop dutifully to the adjacent customs house.
A firm and gruff inspector, alert and interrogative, issued a direct and penetrating inquisition toward our traveller. Etienne was again reminded of his ignorance of the German language. He tried Italian to answer the unknown question. This failed. Later attempts at French proved themselves only derision inducers. This futile exchange persisted for several minutes before the inspector, with absolutely no trace of mirth or merriment, began to speak the Italian tongue.
"Do you hold rank in the French Army?" he asked.
"No." was Etienne's prepared reply. "I was enlisted in the civil service. I am a clerk."
The Imperial official turned up his nose. He was a tall, thin individual whose chin had long since vanished. He posture was appropriately poor but his demeanour did not reflect his build. He was stiff. The small raftered room was as remarkably tidy as its exterior though it still had the tangy aroma of smoked wood. Besides the white vested lanky Austrian there was but a bored local youth peering at some books in the background. This fellow may have been the source of disrespect that the official had for clerks, thought Etienne. Truth to tell, Etienne had the same disrespect himself. Reading was an excuse to get out of work. What, thought the farm boy in a moment of panic, if the German demanded that he prove that he was a clerk.
He did not.
More questions followed on and the answer to each was simple and as disingenuous as possible. It was easier to appear naive and harmless when neither party was able to truly understand what the other was saying. In time, the authority posed a query that gave Etienne pause though.
"Was there no one in Parma that could be sent to Vienna that spoke the Viennese tongue? Why you?"
Etienne paused.
Should he attempt naive or humble? What about a brash swagger? What did the official hope to hear? What would satisfy him? What did he expect to hear?
He thought suddenly about old Sergeant Gembloux and what he had said of Napoleon's strategies: First look to your own weaknesses and then look to your opponent's weaknesses. He needed an answer that would keep him stable while also, ideally, encouraging his foe to end the interview. Etienne watched the Austrian reconsider the passport impatiently while he awaited the traveller’s reply. There was an opportunity.
"My Uncle, the chief clerk of the Ducal foreign office is a friend of Conte Filippo Magawly Cerati and he, and his wife Maria, who is a fine, intelligent and beautiful woman, well ...what is the word.... seen… regarded by all who know her (and some who have only heard of her fine reputation for her beauty at least is almost legendary in Parma and even so far as Mantua I am told), they have often come to my aunt's soirees where I became ...how do you say ... familiar with them and that, combined with a good word and perhaps , I believe, a favour paid perchance, I was able to persuade..."
The passport was quickly signed and Etienne was sent abruptly onward. The background clerk was vented upon.
**********************
By the afternoon of the 17th, Etienne had also put Klagenfurt behind him. He was into Austria and making his way through the passes of the Styrian Mountains. After three days of this force-march, fatigue was beginning to overwhelm his willpower yet still he pushed forward with little respite. A few hours sleep under roof, without moving, without waking, would be immeasurably welcomed. The postillons had figured that the rider might be able to make Bruck by nightfall. Etienne promised himself four hours of good sleep if he could achieve that. Vienna had become a promised paradise. If he could just get to Vienna he could rest. To stop before then represented failure.
The roadway was little more than a path rising up the side of a steep and vast hill. The rider had just managed to urge his beast over the crest of a rise when all dreams of reaching Bruck (and perhaps even Vienna) fell broken about him. Soldiery entirely congested the road ahead. An entire division, perhaps more, consisting of tens of thousands of men, lay thick upon the narrow way. Worse still, it looked like a pair of heavy guns had gotten themselves wedged together somehow and there were a couple of felled horses strewn among the battery. Beyond the guns, filling the trail for kilometres, were more infantry, more limbered artillery, and a long train of supply wagons and baggage carts. All of them were halted.
Etienne was daunted. His mind filled with scenarios on how poorly this could go. He could not bypass that army on this ledge. His instincts called out for him to retire but he knew that he had been marked. To turn about would invite suspicion.
The horse walked warily, carefully, forward plodding down toward the congestion. Our traveller sought to give an air of nonchalance, but he doubted that he was convincing in the role.
Some yellow-cuffed crews were trying to manhandle the mess while braided officers of assorted ranks stood off trying to derive a solution. It did not look to be a friendly conversation and judging by the way that the foot soldiers were sitting ten feet from the carnage without showing the least inclination to provide assistance; Etienne surmised that blame assignations were heavy in the air. Continuing to near, the Frenchman realized that he would have to pass that gaggle of angry staff and officers. There would be a real possibility of one looking to deflect attention from himself onto the passing traveller. All could be forgiven if a spy were to be identified.
A dozen gunners strained. Some put their backs to the carriage while others desperately worked crowbars. There was real desperation fuelling their efforts and as Etienne reined in to overlook the foreign soldiers, he felt camaraderie with them. Some of these were young men, just like him, were still trying to learn the profession. They were without the proficiency that comes with confidence.
All eyes at the head of the Austrian column were on the Frenchman.
Etienne swung himself out of the saddle.
"Bonjuorno." He said it with perfect Italian flair.
With a rich and friendly laugh, Etienne cheerfully muscled his farmer's strong shoulder against the ochre gun carriage. He worked against the daunting weight, tensely focused on the need to push - the need to wrest this monster free.
Was it destiny? Fate? Was it just another shoulder? Was it the laugh? With a thunderous creak, the forward gun broke free from the entanglement and rolled. The Austrian gunners gave a cheer and followed through, setting the 12-pounder apart and a righted. A supportive cheer came from the spectators. Etienne found himself being patted on the back and there were plenty of good-natured remarks tossed his way. He understood none of the jests or jibes but took them in a jovial spirit. It felt good, for certain but he remained alert to the situation.
With a dramatic gesture he neatly regained his mount and tossed off a friendly wave. He even gave a salute to the band of officers as he passed them. They watched him ride by in silence. All about him, the troops were preparing to get marching again and he was soon lost in the crowd. The horseman passed on without further incident.
*****************
Bruck was gained that night and by the next evening the journey had reached Wiener Neustadt, a mere 50 kilometres southwest of Vienna.
This is where Etienne finds himself alone in a crowded tavern, the victim of a settling new awareness. Tomorrow night would have him at his destination. He had no plan. Worse than no plan, there was no bud. The rows had not even been planted. Opening his hands to see seeds of ideas only resulted in them blowing away to nothingness. He had known he would come to this point but he had bent all his energies and efforts on accomplishing the one thing that he needed to do: get to Vienna. As that neared, so came on the time of commitment. Somehow this simple soldier had to accomplish the impossible and the only tool in his possession that he could count on was his determination to see it done. He determined to have yet another beer.
Four young officer cadets, likely just out of class, conquered his table. They didn't oppress the citizen but nor was there an annexation of him into their group. The Austrians were enthusiastic and loud, undoubtedly discussing some new political development. Much beer was ordered and they dove into them with gusto. Napoleon was named often as was Frankreich and one would make a point of pretending to spit each time this was done. His friends seemed to enjoy the simple joke through all of its oft-repeated variations. As the volume of the students' laughter rose, an increasingly nervous Etienne noticed how the room was now possessed of a great many similarly clad officer cadets and all of them had begun to join in with whatever the roused topic was. Shouts and guffaws were tossed about the crowd so that even the tempo of the mood was increasing as much as the noise level. It was clear that they were mocking Etienne's Emperor. They were mocking the French. All manner of promises were issued about what they might do to Parisian women.
One clown cadet alighted from his bench. He traipsed and flounced his minute upon the stage and proclaimed in French that she was Marie Louise. Her companions rose up then and good-naturedly impersonated a gang rape upon the Empress. Laughter raised the rafters.
Etienne's sense of outrage was as real as his impotence. He knew eyes were noticing his silent fumings. He knew that those at his table were on the verge of questioning his virility and loyalty. He could laugh. He could take a turn on the faux damosel. His duty demanded that he come away from this encounter capable of continuing the mission. What of honour though? What of insult? A hero, thought the adventurer, would draw Henri's sabre and send the room of jackals running.
Standing to confront the scene, Etienne swore... in French... and then fled.