All Souls' Rising (45 page)

He thought it better to remain without. He’d broken a sweat while pressed in the crowd; now, in the humid cool of the night, it turned clammy on his cheeks and forehead. He straightened his lapels, and felt under his coat for one of his pair of pistols that he’d concealed in an inner pocket. All seemed in order there. The roar and outcries from the tavern faded behind him as he went on his way toward the Place d’Armes.

G
RANDMONT CHEWED AN UNLIT CIGAR
, sitting across a bare table from Colonel Cambefort. Captain Maillart was looking absently through the window into the courtyard of Les Casernes, where a couple of cavalrymen were brushing down their horses.

“We can turn out a well-organized militia,” Grandmont was saying. “Small numbers, but they’ll be properly armed and should acquit themselves well against the disorder of a mob.”

Colonel Cambefort pulled at his mustache. “We may count absolutely on the Regiment Le Cap.” He glanced at Major O’Farrel. “Dillon and Walsh as well, I should think.”

“A gang of Englishmen,” Arnaud said distastefully.

“Irishmen, mostly,” said O’Farrel. “They’ll be true to us—they’re good king’s men.”

“I think we may also rely on the troops of the line who came out with the commissioners,” Cambefort said. “Although we must be very cautious in speaking to Monsieur Desparbés.”

“Do you doubt his loyalty?” said Grandmont, his mouth turning down toward the weak chin.

“To the king? No,” Cambefort said. “So far as his personal sentiments go. But he is aging, and he certainly does not mean to settle here among us. He must consider that one day, and not long hence, he will answer for his actions here in France. As you all know, it has always been
convenient
for the home government to set the military and civil authorities here in competition with each other. According to their documents, the commissioners do have plenipotentiary powers. For Desparbés to defy them openly would be a serious matter.”

“Well, he has defied them tacitly,” Arnaud said. “He refuses to order the troops out against the brigands…”

“To take him beyond that point would require a sudden shock,” said Cambefort. “I’ve sounded him and that’s my estimation.”

“The shock must come,” Grandmont said quietly. “In a military situation, the military commander stands supreme. When it does come, Desparbés will choose the lesser evil and declare for us.”

Colonel Cambefort looked out the window. “I think you may be right. Well. Let us consider our strength. With Dillon, and Walsh, and the Regiment Le Cap, we may field fifteen hundred men. As for the new troops…”

Captain Maillart returned his attention to the room. “Disease has discriminated neither for nor against us,” he said. “So we may use the ordinary numbers. Two thousand troops of the line will certainly follow us—with Desparbés or even perhaps without him. Then there are four thousand National Guards to reckon with.”

“Can they be swayed in our favor?” said Cambefort.

Grandmont took the cigar from his mouth and inspected the frayed spittle-soaked end of it. “I’m doubtful of that,” he said. “They are all
political
recruits. One can’t say for certain which way they’ll jump, but we’d be wiser to assume they’ll stand by the commissioners.”

“Yes, I agree,” said Cambefort.

“But they’ve none of them been long in the field,” Arnaud said. “They’re ill-disciplined—your regular troops will chew them up.”

“We may hope so,” said Cambefort. “
Bon ça
, what have we then?”

“Thirty-five hundred regular troops,” Grandmont said. “I could promise no more than five hundred militiamen.”

“To set against your four thousand National Guards,” Arnaud said. “The numbers being equal, superior discipline will carry the day in our favor. Drive the commissioners onto their ships and let
them
account for their conduct in France.”

“It’s a pleasant notion,” Cambefort said. “We have also to consider the entire mass of the
Pompons Rouges
. Not to mention
les citoyens de quatre Avril
—who, whatever else you may say of them, are not to be underestimated in battle.”

There was brief silence in the room. In the courtyard, a horse snorted, and a trooper clucked to it and led it away across the cobbles.

“The unity of
those
two factions might not withstand much pressure…” Grandmont said, stroking his underslung jaw.

“That’s an imponderable, is it not?” Cambefort said. “We have rather too many imponderables. I would we were more certain of Monsier Desparbés.”

“How does it stand, then?” asked Arnaud.

“A clear opportunity may present itself but I would say it has not yet done so,” said Cambefort. “When it does come, we must not lose it.”

T
HE MORNING OF
O
CTOBER
17 was cool and foggy. Doctor Hébert walked toward the hospital in a pleasant humor; he was in no hurry, so he stopped to take a second cup of coffee at a tavern that had set out a few wooden tables along the edge of the Place d’Armes. The chairs had been dampened by the mist, and he wiped one down with his handkerchief before he sat down. As he sipped the coffee, his eye was caught by some odd white placards that had been pasted up overnight on the walls of the buildings surrounding the square.

He set down his cup and strolled idly across for a closer look. Each card bore a rough sketch of one or another officer of the royalist regiments, Le Cap, Dillon and Walsh—and all were depicted as hanging in chains. Cambefort and Desparbés had been gleefully included and some of the civilian
grand blancs
were represented as well. For some time, the doctor had been aware that
La Société des Amis de la Convention
, as the Jacobin Club was formally known, had been circulating a list of “traitors to the Republic” whom they hoped the commissioner would deport to France. But this new tactic seemed more violent. The sketches were awkwardly done, but not without a certain verve, and each was plainly recognizable. The doctor was truly brought up short when he saw the caricature of Captain Maillart.

Others had come out to admire this artwork, which they mostly seemed to appreciate and enjoy, pointing and chuckling among themselves. Then there appeared a black-mustachioed officer of the Walsh regiment, who whirled when he noticed the posters, and with an outraged shout began tearing them down from the walls. The brawl broke out so suddenly that the doctor didn’t see it start. The Irishman was clubbed to his knees by the mob of
petit blancs
, though he swung his hairy fists at them and swore at them in English. Someone was running up with a noose and there was a call for the officer to be hanged on the spot, but before they could fix the rope to his neck, more soldiers came double-time into the square and seized him back. The two parties broke up in a jumble of individual fistfights or grapples, and someone fired a gun into the air.

Doctor Hébert touched his own pistol grip through his coat, then went back to Nanon’s rooms at his best pace short of a run. He collected Fontelle and her children and brought them all in with Nanon. For the rest of the day and on into the night they sat behind closed doors and blinds. The smaller children played dress-up with Nanon’s finery, while the doctor engaged Nanon and the older son Moustique in alternate games of chess. Sometimes he’d hush them all, to listen to the shouting that approached or receded in the surrounding streets, and sometimes he’d pace and fidget with his guns. On two occasions there came loud knocking at the door, but he’d allow no one to answer.

I
N THE LATE AFTERNOON OF THAT DAY
, Arnaud and Grandmont came riding hell for leather into Les Casernes with the news that the
Pompons Rouges
had broken into the arsenal and were arming themselves apace. There was no answer at Cambefort’s quarters, but Arnaud soon found Captain Maillart.

“Here’s your opportunity,” Arnaud spluttered.

“
Where is Colonel Cambefort!
” Grandmont said, sprinting back across the cobbles.

“Gone with Desparbés to the commissioners,” Maillart said. “To demand the Jacobin Club be disbanded immediately.”

“They’ll have to be disbanded with grapeshot now,” said Grandmont. “Who’s in authority here? We can lose no more time.”

Before the captain could answer them, they heard hooves beating over the stones of the court and Colonel Cambefort rode in astride a splendid gray stallion. All three of them clustered at his stirrup.

“What news?” said Captain Maillart.

“The Jacobins were there before us.” Cambefort’s face was drawn and weary, but his eyes had an excited gleam. “They’ve asked for my deportation and that of Desparbés.”

“And the answer?” said Grandmont.

“None given,” said Cambefort.

“But where is Desparbés?” Arnaud said.

“He has broken with the commissioners and is ordering out the troops even now.”

“Well, God be thanked,” Arnaud cried out.

The Dillon and Walsh regiments were already falling out into the courtyard with their weapons in hand. General Desparbés appeared on the high step of the general officers’ quarters. He was stooped with the seventy-three years of his age and seemed to need to hold the door frame for support. Cambefort rode across toward him, the others following on foot.

“The National Guards do not obey the order…” Desparbés voice was shaking slightly. His eyes were rheumy. Captain Maillart veered away before he could catch Cambefort’s response, rushing toward the barracks where the National Guards were quartered. Someone called after him but he paid no mind. Grandmont was striding along a pace or two behind him.

As they clattered up the steps, Lieutenant-Colonel Etienne Laveaux appeared in the doorway. He smiled down at Maillart (for these two liked each other well enough despite the difference of their politics) but at the same time pressed his palm against the opposite door jamb and stiffened his arm to bar the captain’s passage. Maillart stopped on the top step and peered into the dim interior hall, where another officer was lecturing the republican troops.

“Why, will you shoot your brothers only to satisfy the barbarous humor of a handful of aristocrats who only wish to destroy the human race…?”

Grandmont twisted his face aside and spat on the cobbles through his crooked teeth. Laveaux’s eyes were grave and sad above the fixed contortion of his smile. Captain Maillart backed down the steps and walked away. Cambefort had dismounted and now stood alongside Desparbés, gesticulating as he argued with his superior, while Arnaud, standing by, was unconsciously mangling his hat in his hands. But before the captain had reached them, Desparbés thrust Cambefort aside and drew himself erect. In a loud, clear, and almost perfectly steady voice, he gave the order for the troops of the line to disassemble and return to their quarters.

O
N THE FOLLOWING DAY
, Sonthonax went with Polverel to address the public in the Place d’Armes; this public included a sizable civilian mass,
Pompons Rouges
, a few
grand blancs
, some
citoyens de quatre Avril
. Both the royalist troops and the National Guards were out in force, ranked at opposite ends of the square. Sonthonax’s face was waxen and stippled with little beads of sweat. The speech was very brief for him, and strikingly unornamental. He told the assembly that Desparbés and Cambefort had been placed under arrest and would soon be deported. He pleaded for calm and asked the people to disperse.

After perhaps two minutes of frosty silence, the two bodies of troops began to file out of opposite corners of the square. The commissioners then disappeared from the scene with a noteworthy precipitousness. Captain Maillart, numb and exhausted, walked in his place behind Lieutenant Baudin, scarcely attending the gangs of
petit blancs
who ran alongside catcalling at them. A man in a soiled bricklayer’s apron was paying peculiar attentions to Baudin, who suddenly wheeled and spat in his face.

“Scum of the earth,” Baudin began, and was just drawing breath to continue when the bricklayer took out a pistol and shot him in the mouth.

His cavalry sword was in the captain’s hand, and he stabbed the bricklayer through the belly without a thought, not even knowing he had done it until he saw the dark blood welling over the hilt onto his hand. As the bricklayer fell sideways, his twisting weight broke the sword from the captain’s hand. The skirmishing was general all around them now, but most of the troops had already left the square. Then Laveaux came riding through, controlling his horse with his knees alone. He was calling out for peace and calling the names of the men he knew and reaching out with both hands to touch them gently as a priest. Both soldiers and civilians allowed themselves to be so manipulated and the fight was over before it had well begun.

Laveaux’s warm palm settled on the captain’s brow. When he removed it, Maillart began unconsciously to weep. Half blinded, he went staggering away from the square.

I
T HAD BEEN JUST OVER TWENTY-FOUR HOURS
since the disturbances had begun. Doctor Hébert answered the door with a pistol in his fist. Through the crack he could just see a bloodstreaked hand and a uniform cuff. He grabbed the wrist and twisted it and jerked the man inside, pressing his face against the door and jamming the pistol into the hollow at the back of his neck.

“Christ, man, don’t you know me?” Captain Maillart said. The doctor relaxed his grip. Nanon had come up to pull him away, while the children all watched round-eyed from the corners of the room.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor muttered. He laid the pistol carelessly on the chessboard. “We’ve been…a trifle anxious.”

“So it would seem.”

“What’s happened?” said the doctor.

Maillart wiped at his bloodshot eyes. “We’re done for in this country. Cambefort and Desparbés will be deported—with
all
the senior officers loyal to the king.”