Memories

Source

The battalion was now bivouacked not far from Nivelles, some five miles from a little crossroads on the main road from Charleroi to Brussels which was crossed by the old Roman road leading to the Prussian concentration area just northeast of Fleurus. Christian had had a chance to talk with their brigade commander, Baron von Ompteda shortly after their arrival outside Nivelles.

"So Kaltenweide, are you settled in?"

"Yes Sir. I've been tasked to take a company at a time out for firing drills. Lieutenant Colonel von dem Bussche is concerned that some of the greener troops aren't familiar with their weapons.

"Good, good. Are your men well-supplied with rifles?"

"Actually no Sir, but we have enough. The Colonel had the less-experienced men give their rifles to the better marksmen. We have a good mix of sharpshooters and regular musketeers in each company. I believe we should be well-matched with the French voltigeurs¹ who, in my experience, are not equipped with any rifles. Simply lighter muskets from what the bulk of their infantry carry which, unfortunately, they are very good with."

"Indeed, they are. Be ready Kaltenweide, I believe we'll be seeing Bonaparte soon!"

Ompteda rode away, trailed by his staff and aides. Christian watched them ride off and was suddenly struck by the fact that many of those men with the Baron might be dead, or horribly wounded before the month was out.

It was the 3rd of June.

"Again! Reload as quickly as you can ..." Christian saw something among the men which immediately drew his ire.

"YOU! THAT MAN!" He shouted, pointing out the miscreant who was pulled from the ranks by one of the sergeants.

"Why are you spilling your powder? Afraid of the kick are you? Sergeant, this man is on report."

Turning to the rest of the company, Christian placed his hands on his hips and bellowed, "If you dump some of the powder to ease the kick of your weapon, you might as well not have a weapon. Your ball will not travel far, it will not kill a Frenchman, a Frenchman who is now free to advance to our line and rip your bellies open with their bayonet. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

Forty-three voices bellowed in unison, "JAWOHL, HERR MAJOR!!"

"Keep them practicing, Sergeant, ten rounds each."

"Sir!"

Christian walked over to where Thomas had been watching the proceedings, shaking his head. The weather was, by turns, scorching hot then pouring rain from the heavens as if Noah was somewhere near, building his ark.

"I swear, Thomas, this company is the worst one yet."

"Perhaps that's why the Colonel wanted them out here for a second time. Do you think the Colonel will have that man flogged? Would you have him flogged?"

Christian drank a bit of brandy from the flask Thomas always had at hand, again, he shook his head.

"The Colonel should flog the man, I would. These men need to understand that if you don't pull your weight, you put the entire company at risk. The consequences for that must be severe."

"Severe enough to cripple a man?" Thomas asked, one eyebrow cocked. For he had seen that happen.

"If the offense is severe enough ... No, in that case the man should be shot, by his own comrades. But flogging should be enough to deter those NOT being flogged. It is almost a rule that a shirker will always be a shirker, eventually they will get themselves killed. Better behind the lines than during a battle. It's uncivilized and horrific, but in many cases it works."

"The French don't flog." Thomas pointed out.

"Well, it wasn't the King that got sent to Elba, was it? Perhaps if Bonaparte had flogged one or two of his marshals², he might not have been sent to Elba."

Thomas nodded, "There is that. By the way Sir, a rider from Brussels brought a message for you. Oddly enough, it was a civilian, not a soldier." Thomas reached into his jacket and produced a piece of paper, no addressee, no return address.

"Thank you, Thomas. I'll be over there, in the shade. We'll wrap things up with this company shortly."

Christian recognized the handwriting immediately, it was Elsbeth's. Rather than read the note, he folded it and slipped it into his jacket. Now was the not the time, nor the place to think on such things.

He remembered when he had met her, on a ship from Portugal back to England. The Duke was under suspicion and there was talk of pulling the Army out of the Peninsula. The Convention of Cintra had been signed, the Duke, Sir Arthur Wellesley as he was known then, had been forced into signing it as a representative of the Crown. He and Admiral Dalrymple were then returning to England to face a Court of Inquiry. Essentially, the Duke had bagged the entire French army under Junot but had been superseded in command by the arrival of Sir Harry Burrard just before the battle.

Sir Hugh Dalrymple had also arrived and took the supreme position of authority in Portugal. Both men were overly cautious and in order to be done with the campaign, they forced the Convention upon the Duke. The Royal Navy was then tasked with taking those French prisoners back to France. The Duke, quite rightly, felt that his victory had been squandered. Apparently so did the government. At least that's what army gossip claimed.

Christian was just glad for the chance to go home and see his family. Though not Hanover, which he missed, England was where his family was and that's where home was. Wherever they were.

That had been seven years in the past. Christian had taken the opportunity to return to England to see his family, he hadn't seen them for almost two years at that point. On the ship he had met Elsbeth von Weiding, though she hadn't yet married Kurt, they were betrothed.

She was still in her twenties, yet she, for some strange reason, had struck up a friendship with Christian, then in his early sixties. Christian welcomed the opportunity to talk with someone whose entire life wasn't centered around the army. They shared an interest in chess, which to pass the time, they played as often as they could. Contrary winds had kept them at sea for nearly a month. They had played a great many matches, she was surprisingly good and won more than her share of them.

In that time, somehow his feelings had deepened, she seemed to remain the same as always, happy and carefree, she simply enjoyed his company, for some bizarre reason. Nevertheless, he thought of her often, especially after his wife had seemed to sour on him. His daughters assured him that as she aged, she was simply more particular as to how things were and how they should be.

Seeing her again had brought many, long suppressed, feelings back. Something he didn't want at the moment, but couldn't deny.

Christian, becoming more of a curmudgeon as he aged, was far too independent for his wife's tastes. So he realized that the problem was mostly on his side. Yet there were days he longed for the freedom to do as he pleased, when he pleased.

Oddly enough, the last place he expected to find that was back in the army. He had leapt at the chance to return to the colors when ...

"Sir!"

Christian snapped out of his reverie, the company commander, Hausser he believed was his name, was calling him.

"Yes, Captain?"

"We've gone through ten rounds per man, Sir. Shall we return to the bivouac?"

Checking the height of the sun, Christian realized that the day was nearly fled. "Yes, Captain, let's return home."

As they marched off, Thomas brought Christian's horse over.

"You looked deep in thought, Sir."

"I was Thomas, I was. There's no fool like an old fool, did you know that?"

Thomas smiled, "Who said you were old, Sir? I'll gut him like a fish."

Christian chuckled, then mounted his horse, "Let's be off, I'm hungry."

"After you, Sir."

¹ Voltigeur, literally "vaulter," French light infantry who, in theory, could vault onto a horse and be carried into battle that way. In practice they didn't do that very often.

² During the campaign of 1814, which did not go well for Napoléon, his marshals eventually forced him to abdicate.