CHAPTER III
“Our cliffs are not so white as theirs.” remarked Brigadier Calot. He and his peer Heulot were seated upon the lightly windswept crag that overlooked the grey and daunting sea. Indeed, their brilliant blue uniforms against fine green grasses made for a marked contrast.
Heulot’s head turned and turned again. His eyes flashed from point to point on the horizon. “Nor so tall.” He added to the conversation.
Gustav Calot grinned and made as though to throw a backhanded blow. “You always make it a question of height!”. His comrade smiled, knowing that the threat was harmless.
“Nor so strong.” he tried.”
“Nor so distant.” was the contribution from their third.
Behind the reclining pair, Marechal-des-Logis Darlon remained on his feet. His uniform, though the same as that of his Brigadiers, seemed more heroic in the pose that he had incidentally adopted. Where the forward two wore their pelisses as buttoned jackets, Henri’s remained perched upon his left shoulder as a demi-cape and it rustled in the wind there. The salt scented breeze did not trouble the finer points of his waxed black moustache. This man’s gaze fixed itself upon the subject landmark some thirty-five kilometres away.
“We’ll get there!” asserted Calot while glancing back to the senior soldier. “The Emperor will get us there.”
Heulot leaned back on an elbow and grinned broadly at his curly-headed friend. “Will he see us home again as well?”
As Henri passed on his turn to remark, Calot replied, “I will gladly die in England if I can first do my duty.” This fair youth seemed earnest in his devotions but he puffed out his braided-bound chest nonetheless.
Smirking, Brigadier Heulot began to quip something about he being willing to have Calot die doing his duty but Marechal-des-Logis Darlon interrupted him with a decisive tone and incisive stare.
“What will come will come, and we will stay alive, doing our duty to ensure that what comes is best for France.”
“…And the Emperor!” Calot boldly corrected.
Henri could not be angry. “They are the same thing.”
Heulot then spun and perched himself up upon his knees. “You’ve been reading too many of Bonaparte’s pamphlets, Margis Darlon.”
The laughter from the ranking Hussar was deep and rich. He winked at the subordinate saying “We shall see. Things appear well enough thus far.” Though he was but a year older than the other two, and they had all been campaigning with Napoleon in Italy four years before, Henri seemed born to be a Hussar. In bearing, manner, and attitude, he was one that all the others in the Regiment looked to as a paragon.
Henri withdrew his pipe from his inner breast pocket and worked at stuffing a thumb of tobacco into the bowl. The speech continued. “We’ve seen the difference that Napoleon made in Italy. He made good generals great. He made good soldiers…” and here he pointed a gnawed pipe stem at Heulot and Calot, “…better men than they ever imagined that they could be. He made us believe that we could perform martial miracles and then we did. Remember Marengo. We ended that bloody day shaking our heads in disbelief. It may well be that we are each of us only alive this day because of what Napoleon gave the army: confidence.”
Heulot shrugged a concession and manoeuvred himself to his feet. The soldier appeared tall, especially when in Calot’s company, yet he was not so large that he ever was considered for the heavy cavalry. His lanky frame too precluded him from ever donning the weighty cuirass breastplate.
As Henri continued, he turned his attention once more to the sea and the lone English sloop that played there with indolence.
“I don’t know, Calot, if Napoleon will take us to England. This was is not of his choosing … our choosing. I believe though that when … if we do cross, it will be on terms that we can win. He will not send us forward to fail.”
Brigadier Calot issued an enthusiastic “Vive l’Empereur!” which brought a wince to the face of Heulot. Henri demonstrated more self-control and echoed the cheer in moderation. Then, with ease born of practice, Henri struck his flint sharply and soon was cheerfully puffing on the pipe. Heulot was obliged to wrinkle his nose and prepare his own habit.
Smacking his weathered lips, the Marechal-des-Logis returned to his essay.
“Of course, if war was decided by wit, sinew, and élan, we would be having this talk in some pub in Edinburgh with our bellies full of lamb’s entrails.” He continued over the agreement of his Brigadiers. “But the wind, the water, and …”
“Admiral Villeneuve?” ventured Heulot.
“The English navy…” Established Henri “each conspire in their own manner to thwart us.”
“William the Conqueror managed it. So might we.”
Heulot shrilly crowed and professed that, “It is William’s sons that we are at war with now.”
“How’s that?” stammered Calot, but his friend waved off the direction. So long as his hand was waving about, Heulot thought to pass his fingers along his thin moustache and twist it. Shaking his head, Calot sat up, retrieved his own vice, and took a long draught from the flask. There was an extended moment of silence then, coloured only by the discordant song of gulls. Henri Darlon disturbed the melancholy, of course.
“Pish.”
“You were like a lion this morning, Brigadier Calot. A lion. I did not think we would ever get you off of that Alsatian.”
Heulot took up the theme, saying, “Aye. He must have been twice your size!” His grin betrayed his intentions.
“Shut up, Heulot.” snapped the Marechal-des-Logis and the rebuked soldier snarled toward the seascape.
“Let’s get back. We’ve scouted enough for today.” said Henri and turned to the three patient horses. “There may be a certain Margis Oldermann that requires a soothing or a beating.”