I have Denis place the pail behind my tent. I already have in my hand a piece of soap and the towel from my knapsack. Putting my towel on the ground, I kneel upon it so as not to get grass stains on my knees. I plunge my head into the bucket, run the soap over my head, scrub at it, then dunk my head again and run my fingers through my hair to rinse it. Afterward I wash my face, ears, and neck, then pick up the towel and stand to dry myself off.
"Here," I say, throwing the damp towel to him. "You may use the water to wash yourself, and I suggest that you do it, as you are filthy."
Poor lad, ain't even got a uniform yet, 'cause of his size. Well, we'll see...
"Then wash out the towel and hang it on the tent pole there to dry."
Grabbing a smaller wet rag, I head off into the bushes myself. Accomplishing that duty and donning my shako, I toss the rag into the bucket. "Wash that, too."
I go back to my squad and find them lined up as ordered.
Sergeant Boule pulls out his sword and puts the hilt to his mouth in some sort of semblance of presenting arms. I notice the sword is rusty and dull. Probably picked it up at a secondhand store. I return the salute with a flick of my hand to my shako's brim and look up the line. They are still barely presentable.
From what I hear, Gaston Boule, baker in the village of Pommard in the province of Burgundy, inspired by the might of the French Empire as personified by the Emperor Napoléon Bonaparte, decided to raise a company of boys and men from his little town and then march off to glory. Bored with country life, they chose to follow him. Fools. And here they are—tentless, bootless, and absolutely clueless—and all for me to take care of.
I go to the first man in line, the tallest. "Call off your names as I pass you," I order.
"Laurent," says the tall man with long lanky hair.
"Keep your eyes cased, looking straight forward when addressed by an officer. Do you understand, Laurent? Do you all understand?"
"Oui, M'sieur."
"Good. Remember it. And you?"
I take another step and come up before the next man. "Simon," he says. He is a large, broad man. Probably an ox driver back in his village.
Next is Vedel, then Gobin, then Bouchard, all unremarkable, except for their lack of military bearing. Lambert, Bertrand, Michaud, Pannetier call out next, followed by Dubois, Chaisson, and finally Guerrette. That makes twelve in the ranks, and with Sergeant Boule and the drummer boy, fourteen in all.
"Very well. Now we shall do some very basic maneuvers. The first is the state of Attention. Put your heels together like this and stand up straight—straight, I said, goddammit!—shoulders back, thumbs on the seams of your trousers!"
I walk the line, scanning them, poking a belly here, pushing back a shoulder there.
"All right. Now I—"
"Your pardon, Sir, but when are we going to eat?" asks Chaisson, a stout man who looks like he has not gone for very long without a meal.
I go up before him. "You shall get your breakfast, Chaisson, we shall all get our breakfasts, when we are able to march to the mess tent like soldiers and not like a shambling gang of convicts. Understand?"
He gulps and nods, his Adam's apple working up and down.
"Understand also that you are not to speak to an officer unless he speaks to you first," I say coldly.
I had noticed the mess tent for the Sixteenth Fusiliers down below, its stoves working and sending out great clouds of steam and very good smells. My own traitorous stomach growls, a sound that I am sure is not missed by the idiots who stand before me now.
"Good. Now the next position will be Parade Rest. When I say the word 'Rest' you will put your left foot thirty-one centimeters to the left and will clasp your hands behind your back, your right hand in the palm of your left. Are you ready? Very well ... Parade ... Rest!"
Feet shuffle out to the side and hands go to the back. Hmmm. That was not bad. So far, so good.
"Very well. We will now do a Right Face. Come back to Attention. Good. You will watch my feet. When I say Right Face!, you will pivot on your heels like this"—and I demonstrate—"and then bring those same heels back to the Attention position. Are you ready? Bon. Sixteenth Fusiliers, Bouvier Squad, Right Face!"
Half of the silly buggers turn left and half turn right. It is then that I realize we are being observed by the officers and men of some of the crack divisions quartered nearby, and they are laughing at us. My face burns. I hear for the first time Farm boys! Look at the farm boys! Clodhoppers! and I don't like it one bit.
But I decide to use it.
"You hear it? Clodhoppers? You see how they laugh at you?" I say in disgust. "Re-form yourselves and come to Attention. Good. Now hold out your hands. Put your right hand now above your head." The hands go up, some of them right, some left, but eventually they all get it right. "That is your right hand and below it is your right foot. Do you have that?"
There are nods all around.
"Now remember this. That is the hand you write with, or if you cannot write, the hand you make your X with."
More nods.
"Do you think you can keep them straight now?"
They sheepishly nod.
"Very well. Let us try it again. Clodhoppers, Right Face!"
This time they all get it right.
"Good enough," I say. "Now we will march to breakfast. When I say Forward March, you will step out on your left foot ... you do remember which one that is, don't you? All right, ready now ... Forward March!"
And they start out pretty much in step and march down the hill to the mess tent. At least they had been issued mess kits with their uniforms and so will be able to eat. There are men standing in a long line and my Clodhoppers go and get behind them.
Leaving them there, I go to present myself to General Charpentier. He is again at his table outside his tent as the day is warm. He is having his breakfast with another senior officer and it looks and smells awfully good. His aide-de-camp looks at me in question when I come up.
"Begging your pardon, Sir, but my men need some supplies. Where shall I get them?"
The officer looks to his General, who beckons me over to stand before him.
I salute and say, "Good morning, Sir."
"Um," he says, making a gesture with his hand that passes for a return salute. "What do you need?"
"My men do not have tents. Some of the men's uniforms do not fit. Others need proper shoes. The drummer boy needs a uniform."
He nods to his secretary, who sits at a small table nearby, and the scribe begins writing out the requisition. He is a civilian.
"...and muskets, Sir. My men do not have guns and they are supposed to be Fusiliers. We'll need cartridges, too, of course."
"We were afraid to give them guns, afraid they would blow their own fool heads off and save the Prussians the bother," says the Colonel, and the others laugh. "Maybe with le Grand Cadet Bouvier, the Scourge of Two Continents, now in charge, they can be trusted." More chuckles. I have always noticed how ready subordinates are to laugh at the jokes of their superiors. I do not smile, but merely stand there waiting.
General Charpentier again nods to the man scribbling away. "But just give them the muskets, not the powder."
Turning back to me, he says, "Show me they can do close-order drill, and the basic maneuvers, then we will see about the powder. We really do not want them killing any of our own, now, do we?"
"How many?" the secretary asks of me. I note the absence of the word Sir. Hmmmm.
"Thirteen men, one boy," I reply. No "Sir," only a frosty Look. After all, he is not a soldier. "And we need a drummer's uniform for the boy."
"We do, now?" The General's eyebrows have risen.
"I'm sure you want the Sixteenth Fusiliers to look its best, Sir, as, otherwise, it will reflect on you, mon General."
"You do have something of a mouth on you, Cadet Bouvier."
"Je suis désolé, Monsieur. I am sorry if I offended you, Sir."
"Ummm," he says, and turns to the civilian. "Will the Quartermaster have all he needs, Monsieur Dupont?"
"All except the tents, General," briskly answers Monsieur Dupont. "The supplier did not come in with them in time." He stops and gives a bit of a cough. "I happen to know some are for sale from the ... uh ... merchants who follow the camp."
Damned thieves, you mean. The supplier probably sold them to the highest bidder, contract with the Grande Armée or no contract. Entretiens d'argent—Money talks, in every language.
"Well, there you have it, Cadet. Let us see how you provide for your troops. Go now and do it."
I salute, do an about-face, and leave, steaming.
Going down to the Quartermaster's huge tent, I see my men still standing in line. What is this, then?
I go up to them and ask, "Why have you not yet been fed?"
"Pardon, Sir," says Sergeant Boule, sheepishly, "but others have been cutting in front of us. They say it is their right. We don't know what to do." I notice burning looks in the eyes of some of my plowboys.
My steam increases. "Their right, eh? Now what would you do if you were in your village and marauding soldiers came in to take your women, your girls? Eh? What would you do?" I hear some growls from the ranks. I want to go up to the first of the sneering bastards who cut in front, a Corporal of Grenadiers, and stick my shiv up his nostril and ask him how his mistress would like him if he comes back from this war with two noses, neither of them very pretty. But I don't. Not yet.
"Steady, boys, your time will come. Stay here, be patient, and you will be fed. But your time will come. Count on it," I say, calming myself, and, I hope, them. "Sergeant, after the men have eaten, meet me at the Quartermaster's tent over there, and we will see them more properly fitted out. Try to assemble them in some order."
"Yes, Sir."
I stride over in the direction of that Quartermaster's tent, signed requisition form in hand, to see what can be done in that regard, when I hear some laughter, derisive guffaws, coming from a table set up in front of a large tent. There are four officers seated there, and I turn to see that they are all Grenadiers, Elite Infantry—a major, a captain, and two lieutenants. They were playing at cards and now they are all looking at me, and yes, they are laughing. I turn to face them.
The Major reclines back in his chair, a cigar clamped in his mouth. I note that, in spite of various blockades and embargoes, nobody around here seems to lack a supply of that vile weed.
"Can you smell manure, Montrose?" asks the Major.
"Indeed I can, Major Levesque," replies one of the lieutenants. "It seems to be coming from that pack of farmers over there."
I know my men can hear this. A glance back shows their heads drooping in shame. This is not what they had signed up for.
I also know that General Charpentier is listening as well. This is it, then.
I hit a brace, put on the Look, and ask, "You have a problem with my men and myself, Major?"
"Only with the stench, boy," answers this Major Levesque, grinning around his cigar smoke. "It looks like you've got some manure on your boots as well."