THE FORAGING PARTY

When Yves first spied the mountainside cabin, the cavalryman gave a relieved alert to his comrade. The pair of young Hussars had been too long riding over awkward and uncertain ground while getting farther and farther from their column. They should have turned back hours before had not Henri spied the thin wisp of chimney smoke on the abrupt and angled horizon. It had proven impossible to make for the signature by anything like a direct line so their steeds had been scrambling up and down over the rocky pathless slopes.

Despite the late spring, ice and cold, biting air made every movement laborious. Twice they had been led astray by deceiving possibilities, but a goat trail had eventually emerged. At this altitude and in this wretched land, it must surely lead to the cabin of a goatherd and it did. The men had dismounted to lead their horses over the rough terrain by the time that they finally arrived before the abode.

Were one to see a watercolour of such a crude stone cabin, situated as it was between a small meadow and a precipice, one would know it to be alpine, but be unable to name Piedmont as its locale. The background was a masterfully painted azure sky broken by massive, jutting peaks. The roof of the cabin was likewise sharply angled to let snow fall off behind it, but every winter it would have lost the bulk of the thatching in these slides. The whole of the settlement was marked by poor workmanship and slovenly attitudes. There was nothing about the shelter to indicate the culture of its inhabitants yet their gender was certain.

Besides the domicile, there was an entirely disrepaired outbuilding; a barn or shed of some sort, and an enclosure of cross-bound wood that only half-heartedly remained a fence, but the bleatings of a score of goats and that thread of smoke from the stonework chimney marked the cottage as containing inhabitants.

Yves was inventing oaths and promises as the two men closed the final distance up the rocky slope but turned back after a few choice ones to determine why his comrade had fallen behind. Henri was mounted atop his beast again. Despite the chill of the evening alpine air, his short sky-blue jacket, unbuttoned though clasped, was worn over one shoulder now. His cylindrical red merliton was once again worn and was angled on his head for maximum jaunty effect. The Hussar had cleaned himself up quickly and was now even waxing his thin moustache. Yves was too thunderstruck to laugh. His own uniform betrayed the weeks of campaigning it had endured. He had tucked away his shako days before and was now wearing a dirty white kerchief over his sensitive ears to keep them close to warm.  Yves though could not help but put hand to his own untrimmed dark moustache to determine how unkempt it had become. His lips were warm at least, he consoled himself and he remained proud of the lengths to which it was growing. He also had to look down at his own costume. Thick grey coveralls were worn over his pale blue uniform trousers, but they got the job done. The great length of coveralls mostly concealed his riding boots while Henri's boots (blackened but not shone) rose up above his calves. There was nothing in the regulations against Yves fingerless woollen gloves, but Henri refused to don anything so practical.

'Any idiot can be uncomfortable in the field' thought Yves. 'Clever soldiers are the first to see to their comforts.'

With a sigh, Yves lifted a boot into the stirrup and hauled himself back once more into the saddle. Caramel's tail flicked as both rider and mount rolled their necks and settled into their accustomed positions. Yves could not let the opportunity pass to tease his comrade.

"Are you pretty enough for the throng of shepherdesses that you anticipate then?" Yves knew that the other horseman was not dandifying himself for potential maidens. No, Henri believed that a Hussar ought always look the part and this was especially true when presenting oneself on behalf of France. The debate was a battlefield that Yves was resigned to never triumph on. The Hussar would put on a show for the inhabitants of this wretched hut. 

Henri brought his steed into alignment with his friend and answered with that charming smile of his, saying "Pretty enough if there are only goats and yourself in competition with me."

 Yves laughed. "Do not be so quick to discount the charms of Caramel and Rivoli" he joked as he petted the neck of his chestnut.

"They are disarmed" replied Henri of the geldings. Unholstering his carbine, he laid the loaded weapon across his lap before urging Rivoli to ascend to the settlement.

Nearing enough to discern battered shoes upon the doorstep, Yves wrinkled his nose distastefully. He was possessed of no romantic affection for peasantry. He had known too many boorish villagers in his time to imagine them as other than just ignorant and poor. He was ever in these times made thankful that his father was a shopkeeper. His hands were not broken by dried, filthy earth. The Norman youth had been properly schooled and with his learning of letters, he knew that he might one day earn a promotion to Corporal. Afterall, there was nothing to suggest that the military would not continue to be a career with many opportunities for years to come. There was little prospect of unemployment.

"Halloo!" called out Henri with a tenor's voice.

While the words were still echoing, an alarmed clatter was heard from within but there was no immediate answer. Henri tried once more.

"Buona Sera!"

The leather of Yves saddle creaked through the silence. An icy breeze swept down from greater heights to further encourage the impatience of the pair.

"Go away!" answered some detached yet determined voice from inside the cabin. The language was broken French and the voice cracked with age and anger.

"We are soldiers, French soldiers," responded Yves.

"We are soldiers of the Army of the Reserve. We are looking for food" amended Henri.

"There is none here. I am a poor old man. Leave me be!" the voice replied. More clattering followed.

Yves rolled his eyes before taking a turn, saying, "We mean you no harm. We will buy your goats"

"They are not for sale. Leave me be!"

The Hussar continued though, beginning "Then we will take..." but Henri quickly reached a hand across his comrade's breast to silence him. That man then took a moment to compose his thoughts and made another attempt.

"Several hours behind us is an army of forty thousand men. They have had no fresh food for five days. We all know that those hungry men will not pay and they will not ask."

The detached voice paused only briefly. "Tell them to leave me be."

"We cannot take that answer back to them" replied Henri with frustration colouring his tone.

Once more there was naught but the sound of Mountain breezes. Yves leaned forward in his saddle in some vain attempt to warm himself against the neck of his steed. He gave further inspection to the mangy herd. The creatures were thin and entirely wretched.

'Meat is meat' he mused.

The voice rose again from within. "Leave me be! I can see that you are still out there."

The bleak face of the cottage was barren piled stone but for a flimsy door and narrowest of apertures on the demi-floor above it.

Yves tried, "Have you got any milk or cheese?"

"No! Be gone!"

The two Hussars exchanged looks and then shrugs. Despite his hunger, Yves was not wholly unhappy at the failed negotiations for he certainly had no desire to attempt to herd that rabble back to the Regiment after dark. Nor did he relish undertaking several hours of butchery.

Henri tried to square the circle.

"How much do you want? We have plenty of francs."

A bolt was drawn and the colourless, unadorned door cracked open. A single weathered eye could be observed, squinting from its seat in a pale-fleshed skull. That eye rolled, scanning the men on the doorstep for treachery and malevolence. The Hussars were leaning in to one another to quietly conspire.

"This is pointless, Henri" said the other, sotto voce, "We can kill two beasts and be on our way. Let's get back."

"If we can avoid brigandage…"

"We gave a good effort. Hell, we can leave coins on the doorstep if it matters."

The mountain man's eye widened once then closed narrower more. As Yves commenced to turn his horse about, the hermit halted him with a changed tone.

"Wait! You have money?"

"Some," answered Yves, finishing his turn by coming back full about.

Henri clarified, "Enough."

"You cannot travel in this coming darkness" It was true. "Stay tonight and tomorrow we will fix a price."

"Yves…"

"Certainly, Grandfather. We accept your hospitality. I'm sure we'll find a fair price."

Bone-thin, grey fingers grasped the edge of the dry wooden door to push it open more. The goats' man appeared as withered and miserable as his herd. With some eighty long years behind him he stood braced in the doorway. Threadbare trousers wrapped skinny legs and upon knees were rough brown patches that dripped with long, dead grey hairs. A few thin, haggard threads clung to his rounded skull and his worn flesh seemed to crawl toward the earth.

With a dry tongue more practiced in silence, the ancient hermit spoke, saying "Put your horses in the barn. I'll put on a pot". As he spoke, that face made few motions. Those eyes though rolled about from soldier to soldier, doing sums and judging them.

'Barn?'

It was no barn. Henri doubted that there'd be room within for both of the mounts but he pushed himself out of the saddle anyway.  Lighting upon the ground he took the time to tug at his tunic and belt to set them to rights. With practised movements he adjusted the sling of his sabre sheath to let it ride high and clear upon his thigh.

From his perch upon the narrow porch the old man watched the martial youths turn their backs to him before he closed the door.

The storehouse would prove to be a serviceable stable. The two men had first to push away grey wooden barrels and rusted tools but a way could be made. Bleating goats in the adjacent compound scampered away fitfully but their stench remained. Henri sought first to bring some light to the scene with a taper and then as he wrestled free the bridle from Rivoli, he added some good cheer.

"We have already triumphed. The Regiment is back there shivering on the slopes and we shall sleep on the hearth this night."

His companion, already unencumbering his steed of the carbine, pistols, portmanteau, and saddlebags, gave a spirited chuckle to answer, "There'll be stew too. Perhaps he has a great-great granddaughter hid somewhere who is both master cook and maiden."

"Even her daughter might be too old for you" jested Henri. When he had unfastened and lifted off the shabraque and saddle, he laid everything down behind Rivoli in the regimental way. The bags and carbine were sheltered under the saddle, dry upon the portmanteau, and then over that went the folded saddle blanket and finally the reins, bridle, and other equipage. He'd been doing it that way for thee years now and saw no need to change. He then commenced to cast about for feed.

Yves warmed his hands on the breath of Caramel while feeding his chestnut the dregs of his ration.

"The man doesn't even own a mule" pointed out Henri when he failed to find a morsel of grain or straw.

"He's chosen a damned fool way to try to survive." Yves stomped his feet impatiently.

Henri shrugged in his turn. He too still retained some feed and was obliged to offer that to Rivoli. It would not be enough though. "The old man has been managing it for a great many years it seems. Whereas you and I, my friend, may be dead tomorrow."

They both laughed brightly but when Henri lifted the hooves of his horse to check for loose or lost nails, Yves stamped his feet to warm himself by the impatient gesture.

"I'll go scout ahead" he said.

Neither witticism nor recommendation came from his companion. Henri did not even look up from his work but he did shake his head in disappointment. The two men had enlisted in the same year and they had campaigned together ever since. Henri today was too tired to try to lecture his peer of the ways to properly care for mount and kit. He did finish his shoe inspection though and reached for the brush.

And so Yves left Henri behind and tromped away with determined steps. The horse was fed. If it was hurting it would have made signs with limps or other altered gaits. Besides, he consoled himself, he would check everything in the morning when his belly was not complaining so loudly. His hands were shivering and that was his body telling him where his priorities ought to lay.

As he walked the short way, he grumblingly allowed his sabre sheath to drag on the ground. His hands were best stuffed tight into his armpits. His pistol was likewise thrust into his waist belt. He stepped through the threshold and paused there to both make a dramatic entrance and allow his eyes to accustom to the dim light. A weak fireplace lit the drab chamber. The room was exactly what he had expected. A single room of dull grey décor dominated the cabin. A ladder, missing a few rungs, ascended to a loft and door on the far side led to some smaller room, the function of which, for this old man, Yves could not imagine.  Upon an imbalanced table was a worn deck of playing cards and beside them there a plate of seeming dusty biscuits. A single chair was aligned with its back to the fire.

At the stone worked hearth, the hermit stood and fixed his flashing flame-lit eyes upon the soldier and he did not move. His one claw held a long and oddly bent poker while the other just depended at his side, coiled in an ungainly thin, cloth wrapped fist. Yves believed that he could see in the old man's temples the slow, deliberate pumping blood. The hungry youth's attention though flew past the guardian to the mid-weight iron pot upon the fire and he intook a deep breath to guess by scent what it may contain. There was nothing though to the odours of this room but sweat and filth and goats and dust.

"What's in the pot, Grandfather?"

The long, hooked nose of the aged goatherd wrinkled itself up tightly and he dryly replied, "Root soup."

Yves laughed for no good reason and from inside his sky-blue pelisse jacket withdrew a pipe of remarkably long stem. He raised it up toward his host as though to offer partnership but before the old man could register any response, the Hussar spun away and into the lone chair with a graceful animation. In almost the same motion his booted feet were lifted up to rest upon the uncertain table.

"Does it ever get warm up here?" asked Yves while he commenced to push a pinch of tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. Friendly conversation was often a soldier's best weapon.

The cast iron pot was swung about with ferocity so that the young man's skull was instantly crushed and a spray of boiling water and blood swept across the cabin room. The corpse and chair together clattered noisily to the floor.

Outside, Henri stopped cold in place.  Halfway to the cabin, he was close enough to have discerned the rattle and immediate quiet.

'What has Yves done now?'

He closed the remaining distance with a half pace and half shrug. When his hand raised up to the door though his imagination caused him to hesitate. But then, as though wrought by his worst imaginings, the lights that had shone through thin cracks in the door flickered, failed, and then brief moments later turned to utter and instant black.

Henri held back.

"Yves?"

There was, of course, no reply.

"Yves?"

Silence.

The signs were all there. If it was unclear why this had happened, the situation was certain.

He did not open the door that his fingertips were pressed against. There had been no shot fired. The light had been put out to advantage the defender. To cross that threshold now, to step through, silhouetted into the absolute black of that near windowless hut, would offer every opportunity to the murderer.

In the mind of the remaining Hussar, all the scenarios were quickly playing out.

'No', he censured himself, 'Do not attack blind. Reconnoitre.' So he quickly scuttled back to the barn. In his mind's eye, he had left the old hermit crouched in a corner with a pistol, Yves' pistol, levelled at the doorway.

No shot was fired at Henri's back though before he reached the safety of the barn. The horses had no cared. They sensed no crisis. Leaving the door open to allow the moon's early rays to give some illumination, Henri knelt to rummage through Yves' pile of possessions. He could not help but curse the disorderly manners of his comrade as he fumbled about trying to identify objects by touch. His wary eyes were fixed upon the doorway from which he waited for the hermit's sally.

Soon enough the soldier's hands found his friend's carbine musket and too, his ammunition pouch. Excellent! The old man had only one shot to make. Yves was a good enough soldier, knew Henri, that the carbine, like the pistol, would have been loaded before starting out on their foraging expedition. Still, while he continued to throw anxious glances through the doorway he took stock of his weapons. He dropped the ramrod down the barrel and was satisfied to not hear the sound of metal on metal. Henri was satisfied with the load and so then edged to the door. Crouching there, the Hussar assessed the situation.

Only a single second floor window, a narrow one, gave the old man a shot at anything to the front. The door remained closed but it was shoddy enough that maybe he could screw his eyeball up to peer through it. He likely couldn't fire through it. Henri had to learn more.

With pistol tucked into his belt and Yves' carbine in hand, Henri made a beetling run around to the back of the shack. The jangling of his accoutrements and creaking of his leather boots made stealth impossible. The goats once more raised a cacophony and fled to the far side of their enclosure.

As each boot hit the hardened earth, Henri's heart beat. His ears, chilled by the alpine air, were alert to every sound, half-hoping to hear an explosion of gunpowder. If the old man fired then everything became easier. If he missed, Henri could storm the house and take it to a physical contest of courage. When the pistol was spent it would be down to a contest between men.

Henri's tall, bright red merliton bounded along unmolested by any bullet. Hussars were glad for their brilliant headgear in times like this, when under skirmish fire. Poor marksmen might take the scarlet merliton as a point of aim and so invariably miss. A good soldier fought such instincts and levelled his firearm at the knees, counting on the rising round.

He rounded the back of the house and got clear of the front arc but it felt like a failure. He had drawn no fire. Maybe he hadn't been seen. If there was a door, a window, at the back, maybe he could stealth his way in. There was no door. No window.

'Idiot Old Man! What sort of ridiculous home is this?'

Crouching at the back corner, Henri felt defeated but he was also seemingly safe back here. He backed away from the corners. He need not give the old man an opportunity to sneak up on him. Once he was a ways back he could assess the silhouette of the crude cabin. He quickly ruled out the chimney as an opportunity for though he might stop it up to smoke the hermit out, he recalled that the fire must have been doused. Where there was no light there was no fire. He also did not fancy a climb onto the highly angled roof if the rundown appearance of the rest of the rustic farmstead was any indication.

Bright ideas were in short supply.

'If you can't get a good plan, any plan will do.'

Henri checked his uniform and then rechecked his carbine. He confirmed that his pistol was easily gained from his belt. The sabre drew smoothly so he sheathed it again. Everything was ready.

The next step was to circle the barn and goat pen at a jog and then, as he continued about to the front of the house, Henri proceeded to conduct a mannered, soldierly promenade. Thirty paces would be the range. That would be close enough to tempt a shot but far enough to make a hit unlikely.

"Halloo!" called out Henri as he continued to slowly, deliberately pace. "Halloo! Have you killed my comrade?"

Henri's imagination swam with visions of the old man peering at his target over the barrel of a pistol. Was he at the window? The soldier could not help but chuckle ruefully to realize that it was not really a window at all. It was only ever designed as a fortress firing slit. The next thought brought Henri and his humour to an abrupt halt. The old man had built a firing bay. What could have induced Henri to think for an instant that the sort of man who would do such a thing did not have a musket of his own? He might have any number of old hunting weapons in there. He's built a fortress. Was this some wily old veteran with a rifled sniper's musket aimed now at the Frenchman's belly?

Cracking through the air was a retort from the hermit.

"Go away!"

The Hussar silently reprimanded himself for flinching.

The siege was failing. Negotiations were exactly where they had begun but now the besieger's strength was halved. Could the fortress be carried by assault? To attempt it and fail would mean an end to all further opportunities. The siege must be sustained. Light cavalry though despise sieges. They haven't the patience for them. It was time to encourage a resolution.

Pulling the carbine up to his shoulder, Henri made a pretense of aiming at the cabin but closed both eyes firmly before he pulled the trigger. The acrid burn of gunpowder jarred his nostrils. As soon as the flash had passed over his sealed eyelids, he opened them to study the house in the moonlight.

And he got exactly what he wanted. There in the firing slit above the door, there glinted the briefest hint of metal in the moonlight. The defender was upstairs! There was an opportunity.

Henri dropped the carbine and ran for the door as quickly as he could. His sabre and sabretache bag bounced and tangled about his legs but he pushed on, growing seemingly stronger and more determined with each stride.

A shot cracked.

Henri kept running.

His shoulder dropped. He pulled his head down and twisted. Shouting, he threw himself violently against the door. Pain flashed through the Hussar's shoulder and spine as the wood splintered and he fell forward into the room. Something caught his foot and he stumbled, falling into the darkness. He could not catch his fall for again, beneath him, the ground was unexpectedly raised and soft and cold and uneven and Henri fell splayed across the corpse of his friend.

"Go away!" screamed the hermit from his perch somewhere unseen above. His fear cut through the darkness. Henri was not pausing though and he twisted, turned, and fumbled for solid purchase. His eyes were wide, trying to find some semblance of landmark, but seeing none, he could only scramble toward the shrill voice of the old man.

'Get beneath him!' shouted Henri silently to himself.

Henri pressed himself against the nearest wall within the room and paused those seconds before his eyes could adjust. The ceiling immediately above him was low. That meant he was below the old man. He had a moment to spare and he took it to get his breath and rub his right shoulder. He noted that he had not been shot and then looked to the body that had been laid as a barricade at the doorway. The face of Yves was a bloody ruined mess and Henri made a mental apology to his friend for treading upon him.

That was it. He was dead. Henri's boot knife was out and cutting through the leather straps of Yves' sabretache with practised efficiency. Once the purse was free, Henri gave a nod of thanks to the corpse and then quickly scrambled out of the doorway.

His run to the barn was brisk, only slowing to grab the discarded carbine. No shots followed after him. Indeed, Henri was undisturbed as he saddled up the pair of horses. The Old Man never emerged when the Hussar slaughtered a single goat and threw it over the back of Caramel. He didn't respond as Henri led the train away muttering "Bastard Old Man" under his breath.