The Word Spreads ...

Potato Planters
Jean-François Millet (PD)

Young Claude Martin came rushing into the small cottage, yelling at the top of his lungs, "Pépé, pépé!¹ Where is papa? There is news from the south!"

Pierre Martin smiled, then said, "What is all this noise, young man? Your father is out in the fields, with your mother. Spring is in the air and we will be planting soon. Now tell me my lad, what is all this noise?"

Claude took a deep breath, then blurted out, "Bonaparte has returned."

Pierre turned white as a sheet at the mention of that name.

Joseph Martin looked up to see his son rushing towards him. He nudged his wife and said, "Marie, young Claude looks more agitated than usual. What do you suppose is the matter?"

Marie Leroy² looked up from where she had been clearing a patch of soil. "He reminds me of you, before you went off to the wars."

Joseph sighed. His wife was right, he once was young and without a care in the world. They lived far enough from Paris that the Revolution hadn't impacted them in their everyday lives. However, the wars sparked by the Revolution had affected them in the persons of Marie's father and Joseph's own father.

Joseph's father had returned from the wars, minus an arm. Marie's father was buried somewhere in Italy, but no one knew where.

Joseph had been born in 1785, he remembered clearly his father's enthusiasm for the Revolution. "Why should the damned king have whatever he wants while we peasants slave away?"

His father had also deeply loved the young General Bonaparte, even after losing an arm at the bitterly contested battle of Marengo. His disaffection with the Corsican began when Bonaparte proclaimed himself First Consul for Life in 1802.

Though his father had exclaimed in anger, "So, you go to serve the new dictator. We rid ourselves of Louis the king, only to replace him with another king?" Joseph had enlisted in the army at the age of nineteen, as did many of the other men in the region.

Joseph had returned home after the Austerlitz campaign as a corporal, his best friend René Leroy had found a grave on a windswept Bohemian hillside. Upon delivering the news to René's family, he had gotten to know René's sister, Marie.

She had been cold at first, despising the uniform which Joseph wore as it reminded her of her dead brother. But things had changed when Joseph had returned after the victory at Friedland. He had been wounded there, a spent musket ball breaking his left upper arm nearly at the moment of victory.

Marie had paid a courtesy call to Joseph's family, she had not forgotten the kindness shown to her when her brother had not returned home. She had spent a few long evenings talking to Joseph's father, then Joseph himself when he had recovered enough to start working around the farm again.

A farm, which old Pierre had reminded her, no longer belonged to some absent noble in Paris, but was now the property of the family Martin. As her own family now owned the land they used to farm for the Church before the Revolution.

Truth be told, Marie had fallen more in love with old Pierre than with his son Joseph. But she was a realist, a young husband she was fond of was better than an old husband she may or may not be in love with. With the passage of time, and the birth of little Claude in 1808. Marie saw the good in Joseph and she grew to love him.

Joseph had been recalled to the colors in 1809 and had fought had Wagram, still with the army he went into Russia, and survived that ordeal. When the Emperor had abdicated in 1814, Marie, and many other wives in France, had breathed a sigh of relief. Her man had survived, now perhaps it was time to have a brother or sister for Claude.

"Papa! Bonaparte has returned!" Claude managed to gasp out the words, he had run all the way from the village with the news. While he was watching his father, he couldn't help but notice the look on his mother's face.

Something akin to despair.

"Where did you hear this, my child?" Marie asked. She had noticed her husband's face, a look of joy, followed quickly by a more neutral look when he had noticed his wife's face.

"A rider from Provins passed through this morning, everyone in the village is talking about it!"

Joseph began to speak but stopped when Marie turned on her heel and began to walk angrily back to the cottage.

"Papa, what is wrong with Mama?" Claude knew that something was amiss. Then he remembered last year when his father had returned home after the war was over. Angry words late at night, angry glances in the morning, Claude knew that his mother hated Bonaparte, almost as much as she had hated the late king.

Joseph took his son by the hand and said, "Come, we have decisions to make."

Joseph was walking to the village, he had his kit with him. Though his tunic was a bit moth-eaten, it was still in fairly good shape. He had thought to don his uniform, but not everyone was happy that the Emperor had returned, his wife among them. So he would proceed in mufti, waiting until he rejoined his regiment before donning his old uniform.

There had been angry words exchanged, but he felt bound by his duty to return to the colors. His wife couldn't understand what he felt, all she knew is that once more she stood a good chance of becoming a widow.

His father was walking beside him, silent, neither approving nor disapproving of his actions. As the two men approached the village, Joseph could see that a number of men, old soldiers like himself, had gathered. No one was wearing a uniform but a number of men carried their old muskets. Which they had somehow "forgotten" to turn in when their regiment had been disbanded.

Pierre stopped, Joseph turned to him with a questioning look.

"I will leave you here. Don't worry about Marie, she will come around in time, she's a practical woman. Her only worry is that she might lose you, son."

"You know I have to go, right father?" Joseph tried to keep the pleading tone from his voice, he was only partially successful.

Pierre grinned, "I wasn't always an old man, I understand your need to go. But be careful, I don't give Bonaparte any chance at all of retaining the throne. Not with all of Europe against him."

"How can you be so sure, father?" Joseph had a look of confidence, the confidence of a true believer.

"An old man's instincts, an old soldier's premonition if you will. Remember one thing, not all of the men in your new company will be known to you. Bonaparte must raise a new army, men will be thrown together in new units bearing old titles. Whatever you do, be careful. Come home." Pierre looked at his son for a long moment, it hardly seemed possible that his boy had risen to become an officer, a captain, in the army of Napoléon Bonaparte. But a captain he was.

"I will do my duty, father. That is all I can promise."

"I know my boy, I know."

The elder Martin watched his son join his comrades. Within moments he and another fellow, a sergeant, had the men on the road and marching towards whatever destiny awaited them. He said a silent prayer as he turned to return home. All he could see of the future was darkness.

And despair.

¹ Pépé is French for "grandpa." 

² French women keep their maiden names upon marriage. A legal thing which started with the Revolution and exists to this day.