Napoleon Symphony: A Novel in Four Movements (47 page)

“I am altogether delighted,” smiled Dr. Arnott, “that you now propose to withdraw your admittedly eloquent but hardly rationally inferred opposition to the er galactic, meaning milky I believe, proffer of Sir Hudson. See it here,” he smiled, indicating the niveal content of the crock. “Cow-milk, or as you somewhat polysyllabically put it
vac
er
laccae
, a candidly incolorated nutritive of gust inexpressibly bland, and all a freely and, may I say, magnanimously donated eleemosynous contribution of Sir Hudson Lowe, expressive of gubernatorial concern, towards the invalid diet of our er invalid.” And he smilingly indicated. “Or perhaps you would like other opinions? Other opinions are, as you will be aware, freely available. Let us by all means call in other opinions.”

“You know full well,” responded the other in Corsico-Franco-Italianate gloom, “that they will be Britannic opinions, and that I shall hence be in the ignominious and impotent state of being in a minority of one. I protest most forcibly against the injustice of the arrangement. I consider that I, who more than any have the welfare of our imperial patient at heart—”

“As for the imperial epithet,” smiled Dr. Arnott, “that has no significance as far as myself and my colleagues are concerned, nor, indeed, does it much signify in relation to his invalid status, since the organs of the human body are the same for all human bodies, for emperor and clown indeed, and the myth of the blue blood has, I fancy, been long exploded. So shall we, without more ado, and without feeling ourselves called upon to call on other opinions, help him imbibe of the gubernatorial eleemosynous—” And he smilingly.

“And that I have been regularly and exemplarily treated with the most scrupulous unfairness. This I regard, along with my imperial patient and master, alas alas moribund, I weep and will weep more, as very typical of Britannic hypocrisy and injustice, and I protest to posterity with every breath in my—”

“Ah,
moribund
, as you say,” smiled the smiling British smiler, “and therefore it is a matter of little consequence whether or not he be fed with the gubernatorial gift, though the odds are that it might greatly nourish his moribundity, so let us therefore—” And he.

The moribund patient, from near-coma, smiled on marking the word
moribund
. The new device which enabled him to hear with exceptional clarity the conferences of the enemy was informing him of stupidity and strategic division and consequent paralysis. Of V on the morrow there could be no doubt.

From bivouac to bivouac to bivouac to bivouac to bivouac and all the way it was torches held aloft with Long Live The Emperor and It Is The Anniversary Of His Crowning and God Bless You Sire, rough soldiers in tears of love and joy as he walked, with straw torches blazing all about, from bivouac to bivouac to bivouac. He waved his hand in thanks, tears in his own eyes, God Bless You My Children, and came to the bivouacs of the artillery. Thank You Thank You he cried almost weeping at the soldiers’ tears and the fiery blessing and then:

“Keep those fucking torches away from the artillery caissons.”

Milk indeed, the very notion of feeding him milk. He dined with his officers on fried potatoes and onions, and there was good talk and much laughter.

“A fine phrase, Sire, that in the peroration of your Order of the Day.”

“You could almost set it to music, Sire, ha ha, a new kind of hymn of hate.”

“Ah, it is they who do the hating,” he smilingly said, forkful of fried onion and potato ready for his lips. “For them we need have nothing but pity. Still,” chewing hard and then gulping, and not even the promise of a stab of pain, “there’s something in what you say. I fancied myself once, you know, in my distant youth—”

“Ha ha, Sire.”

“—As something of a song-maker. Let us try, and then you can all join in.” He raised his voice in a tuneful improvisation:

“England! England!

The paid lackeys of England!

Alas, gentlemen, I can for the present go no further. But perhaps it will serve. Come then. I will give you the recitative and then you will come in with the chorus.

Let every man be filled with the thought

That it is vitally necessary to overcome

These paid lackeys of—”.

And over the camp the lusty song, of the Emperor’s own making, boomed and rebounded, so that doubtless the engloomed enemy heard and trembled:

“England! England!

The paid lackeys of England!

A long incineration

For those who hate our nation.

England! England—”

It was the kind of song that could go on indefinitely, especially as the Emperor had not contrived a tonic ending, but he himself grew weary of it and talked of the East.

“The lure of Egypt, gentlemen, and the greater exotic lure of the lands beyond. The East—does not our way lie there? Europe shall, after tomorrow, be wholly ours. We do not wish America or Africa, shapeless savage continents with no future. But ah, the East. India, China, fabulous Japan. And, of course,” with a fierce savagery replacing the mystic look, “we have the mission of striking at the enemy of mankind in that very East where he has so precarious a toehold—”

Some of the younger officers thought this was a cue for a reprise, so they lustily bellowed:

“England! England!

The paid lackeys of England!”

“Yes yes,” said the Emperor sourly, “that will do very well.” Then he brightened and said: “I hear that a comet—you know, a traveling star with a tail—has been seen over Paris. Any of you heard about that?”

“Sire.”

“Sire.”

“A good omen for the morrow, gentlemen, I have no doubt. Does it not presage the fall of princes? Well, they will fall—emperors of the blood, ha!—Russia and Austria, lackeys of—No, no, no,” getting it in quickly. “No need to sing. Well,” briskly, “we can’t sit here all night chatting of orientology and astrology and the like, nor are we a musical society. There are things to be done. Any news yet of Marshal Davout’s division?” Sad round eyes looked at him, heads gently signaled the negative. “Still on his way from Vienna, then. He’ll be here, I doubt not, before dawn breaks.”

“Sire.”

He toured in torchlight, inspecting, inspecting. Long Live The Emperor It Is The Anniversary Of. “Thank you, men, and God bless you all. See,” keenly looking south, “there are many enemy campfires around Augezd. I think, Savary, that a forward reconnaissance is called for. Find out their strength around Augezd.”

“Sire. Sire, Marshal Davout has sent on ahead a report of his imminent arrival. Would you wish to see his dispatch rider?”

“I think not. I will see Davout himself when he comes. Now find out the strength round Augezd. I’d guess, hm, a whole corps.”

“Sire.”

“I’m going back to my quarters. An hour’s rest is called for, Savary.” And off he went, God Bless You Sire and so on, torches torches. Before he could lie down in the straw of the hut where he was lodged, Davout at last arrived, dusty, tired.

“How well you look, Davout, not an ounce of fatigue in your whole body I can see, you’re remarkable, astonishing, eager for the fray, eh? Good, good. You know the position.” He thumped the map in lantern-light. “You’re on the right there. How soon can you be set up?”

“Sire. Cavalry and advance guard by nine in the morning. Infantry a little after.”

“Eight, make it eight. Eight, Davout. By God, how
well
you look.”

“Ten, make it ten,” smiled Dr. Arnott. “You agree, Mitchell? Ten grams of calomel. Shortt, you agree?”

“I must protest with every breath in my body,” cried Dr. Antommarchi. “The condition of the patient is far too enfeebled for a purgative. But I see it is three to one and that the claims of clinical reason and sheer human compassion are unlikely to prevail—”

“Good then,” smiled Dr. Arnott, “we’re all agreed on ten grams of calomel. Make him excrete beautifully.”

News came in that a patrol of Austrian hussars had been driven off with ease at Zokolnitz, or just outside. “No need to wake me for that shit,” growled the Emperor. “Wake me when Savary gets back.”

Savary got back. “As you said, Sire. At least a corps round Augezd. What orders?”

“We’ll have Marshal Soult in on this,” the Emperor said, picking straw from his hair. “Slight change of emphasis necessary. No rewriting of the notes, if you understand my musical image, Savary, but the placing of a sforzando. Come. The time?”

“Three o’clock and a mist rising. Sire.”

“We’ll assume, Savary, that the corps you found there signifies a weakening of the enemy’s forces to the north—their right center. So we’ll shift our attack a bit to the north. And while we’re at it we’ll reinforce our own right with, oh, say another four thousand. I’m not too happy about getting Davout’s lot in there on time. Davout looked very weary, Savary. Exhausted, you understand.”

“Sire.”

“You said something about a mist, Savary.” He stepped out into the beautiful black (behold, gentlemen, the paradoxical etymology of our white calomel!) of the December foredawn and saw for himself the rising calomel exhalation of the frozen ground. “It should do us no harm, Savary.”

“Sire.”

“Vandamme and St. Hilaire will attack from Puntowitz, that spot to the right of my navel. Yes, that should take care of the enemy’s, ha ha, debilitated right center. Come, let us visit Soult, wake him ourselves with an imperial shake-awake, a little surprise for him, eh, Savary?”

“Sire.”

For if his body was lying at an angle northwest by southeast, then the Santon Hill nestled in his left armpit, and the Goldbach Heights were a little above his left elbow, and the stream called Golden, the Goldbach, with its tributary the Bosenitz, ran from left shoulder to down below the bottom right rib, and while his stomach was a hill with a peak called the Zurlan, his whole gloriously swollen belly was the Pratzen Heights. Puntowitz and Kobelnitz and Zokolnitz and Telnitz were moles about the silver scar of the Golden Stream, from navel down nearly to right hip bone.

“The distention is very considerable,” smiled Dr. Arnott, prodding the Pratzen Heights.

“I protest with every breath in my body at this totally unnecessary and viciously inhumane palpation while the patient is at rest—”

“Very,” agreed Dr. Mitchell, agreeing. “I agree.”

At four in the morning the mist had thickened. The first troops groaned and cursed at the come-on-out-of-them-fucking-wanking-pits, yawned, cursed, gulped raw spirits, then moved.

“Well,” he smiled from rising ground, “it is a good beginning. I would divine that the enemy is in some confusion beyond the Goldbach there, the mist intruding and hindering their formations.”

At seven he stood with his staff, all enmisted up to the waist.

“Things going badly at Telnitz, Sire.”

“Nonsense. Legrand can look after himself.” But the massive column of General Doktorov came lurching out of the mist of the dawn to join Kienmayer. The Third of the Line was being driven out of Telnitz, and Davout had to cover the retreat with his hussars and chasseurs. One village in the enemy’s hands then. The Emperor began to dance up and down, though with legs hidden in the mist. Yet his face did not show rage. He was dancing with the cold.

North, at Zokolnitz, a garrison of eighteen hundred men and six guns, Merle’s Light Brigade and Mangeron’s Tirailleurs together, could not prevail against Langeron and Przbysewski’s thirty cannon and eight thousand men and—

“Zokolnitz fallen to the enemy, Sire.”

“General Heudelet will counterattack at Telnitz, the first thing is to get Telnitz back.” But he spoke distractedly, his eyes on the Pratzen Heights. The mists were rising like a curtain to show its frosted rock and green, and towards it the Russian columns surged and frothed like a swollen river of spring. He smiled.

“I would say, would you not, my dear Soult, that something like let me see oh say forty thousand are massing against our right. Wait a little while, and their center will be as weak as water.”

“Sire.”

“Sire, a report has come in that the 108th Regiment has fired accidentally on General Merle’s Light Brigade, Sire. Fog, smoke, Sire. Confusion, Sire.”

“General Merde,” he said cheerfully. “Now, Soult, how long will it take you to get your divisions moved to the top of the Pratzen Heights?”

“Sire, you see their present location, or rather you do not. They’re hidden by fog and campfire smoke at the foot of the valley. I’d say thirty minutes.”

“Make it twenty.” He jammed his spyglass to his right eye, looked afar, grinned. “Two more of their columns moving south. So,” he said cheerfully, “the enemy is in control of Telnitz and Zokolnitz. Well, well, well. The time?”

“Just on nine, Sire.”

“And a very good time too. I think we may now, Soult, unleash your two divisions.”

“Sire.
Pas de charge
,” called Soult. And the drums thudded into it, all along the valley, ordering voices tore themselves apart, echo echo all along the valley,
pas de charge
.

“Ah, a gorgeous sight.” Out of the valley mists arose the two divisions, bayonets agleam in the weak winter sun, moving up to the plateau, drums drums drums drumming.

The Emperor sang his own song softly: “England! England! the paid lackeys of England! Mister Pitt will be very very sick before this day is out, gentlemen.” And then he made a kind of nursery chime-tune out of the names of the moles about the silver scar that ran from navel down nearly to right hip bone: “Puntowitz, Kobelnitz, Zokolnitz, Teeeeeelnitz.”

“Sire. General St. Hilaire has taken the village of Pratzen and is now on the summit.”

“And General Vandamme?”

“Some little trouble, Sire, at the village of Girzikowitz.”

“All these witzes and nitzes, eh? Now let us consider Blaso-witz up to the north there. Things going well?”

“Sire. There is an unsubstantiated report that the Russian Imperial Guard has taken the village.”

He saw through his spyglass the messed-up Russian column to the south, a rapid and messed-up redirecting of the march, what looked like two mere battalions reaching, far too late, the village of Pratzen.