The black void surrounding Etienne was unsettling. He had felt the solitude before. So many nights in the barracks and even in bivouac on the march, he had lain in the darkness and pondered his future, his past, and his place. It mattered not that soldiers were an arm's length away just as now it did not matter if a host of rogues were active on the floor below him. Solitude had nothing to do with the presence of other people. The boy was alone because he could turn to no one. He was alone because he had to solve his own problems and perhaps more importantly, because only he understood this scale of problems. Even if Henri was here he wouldn't understand. The Hussar would talk about the mission and he would think it was all about Napoleon. He could never talk to Henri about fear.

It was not cowardly to be afraid. Henri had not chastised him for crying Etienne wondered if Henri had cried. No, Etienne thought, the captain never would have lost hope. Is that what it meant? Had he lost hope? Escape had to be possible.

"The critical thing to succeeding is to attempt. After that, everything falls into place."

He would make the attempt. He would make the escape. He would not wait for Henri yet he would not abandon him either. No, if Henri still lived Etienne would rescue him and surely, he still lived. It was foolish to think the man was killed. Surely he had just been moved or some such. Etienne would not lose hope even if he were seemingly alone for now.

Etienne’s life had not been one of loneliness. He made friends easily, got along well enough with others, and had no difficulties with women. Its not like he had grand dreams and ambitions that nobody else could empathize with. He only wanted the simple things. It may have been that he didn’t even have dreams.

One day he would return home to return to work on the family land. In time, sadly, his father would pass and the farm would fall to him. It was inevitable, acceptable, and it was his future. To dream of more would just complicate things. Dreams were a rich ingredient in the recipe for misery.

When, finally, the wars were all done he would return to his village and take a wife. She would be neither bright, educated nor particularly beautiful. She would be nothing like the Princess Pauline but that was all right. That was all he needed. Wasn’t it? He could never hope for someone like the Princess.

“The critical thing to succeeding is to attempt.”

She never treated him like a lesser. She was nice, even sweet to him. She possessed such a charming smile and she gave it to him freely, frequently.

The Princess was not vulgar like some of the village girls and her hands were soft. He remembered their casual, tantalizing touch. Yet, Pauline had apparently come from almost a common Corsican stock. She was certainly not born to nobility nevertheless here she was become one and a perfect one.

If she could do this then so might he. He had the costume and he wore it well. Pauline had remarked upon how well he looked in it. He could wear it forever, for her.
Etienne, he thought, would make an excellent Prince. He wouldn’t forget the common people. He’d always remember his roots and throw money to the children in the villages as he drove past in his fine carriage. Everyone would love Prince Etienne and his beloved bride, Princess Pauline. They would dine with the Marshals of France and hold dinner parties for Kings and Queens of Europe. His costume would be even better then. Pauline would have helped him to pick it out so that he would look handsome indeed. She would have marvellous taste.

Yes, once he had escaped he would certainly need to get to Parma. He would need to solve this mystery. First, though, he had to escape.

Etienne began then to fumble about in the lightless garret, feeling blindly for some tool that might aid his impending escapade. His hands felt once more upon some child’s crib but it was of sturdy craftsmanship that was ages old. An unlocked chest contained some clothes within. Clumsy fingers found them to be women’s wear. Little else came to the attention other than the trap door. Certainly he spent a time exploring this choice and considered plans for sneaking down through it when things were quiet. He then imagined dropping into a room filled with the same thugs that had earlier beat him so thoroughly. There was only one way out that I could consider.

Moving himself to a side where the starkly sloped ceiling met the floorboards, Etienne pressed against the beams until he found a place with some give. Thankfully, the trees in this region did not grow to great heights. These were but short lengths. It might come down to the quality of the local smith’s nails. He called out his friend's name a couple more times but these availed him no more than the last. No sound came from that direction. It would be his turn to rescue the captain. He would act alone.

The first good press was a failure. It would give. It was not secure. His touch was sensitive enough to know that there was some resistance against the boards. He shifted himself about to put his back to the floorboards and boots to the ceiling. Bracing himself firmly, he channelled his energy through his quadriceps and strained to overcome the pressure. As he strove, he began to hear loud verbal exchanges filtered through the floor. He entertained the scheme of taking a solid kick. Would the sound bring them running? What would they do when found him trying to escape? At best they would change his cell. They would increase the guard. Etienne knew though, in depths of his soul, that they would kill him without mercy.

He could not clearly hear the argument below not least because it was in German. Voices were moving from room to room and something soft was receiving hard violence. Through the angry charges and defences, his fusilier ear did he hear the loading of muskets. Fearing the worst, he called out again to Henri yet still he heard nothing back. He tried again, louder, and trusted to the furious chorus below to drown out his daring.

"Henri!"

Suddenly the bandits were silent.

Someone shouted something in a foreign tongue.

A musket boomed out and another followed.

Etienne did not waste a heartbeat. Drawing back, he powered a single kick with desperate energy and as he did so, indeed, a third shot rang out and through the echoes of all this clamour, that old wood split clean. His boots pushed through to the thatch and even before that last sound reflected in the Tyrolean valley, he was kneeling up and clawing away at the dry, rotten straw. This was work that his strong hands knew. This was the work of the earth and soon, though pushing and rending, he had tunnelled through to the alpine sky where the Moon seemed to welcome him with a silent smile. The prisoner only then paused in his thoughts to consider the import of those shots. Had they been for Henri? He did not surrender to these thoughts and as he toiled to enlarge the aperture, another tramp of boots and coarse voices informed him of the return of his captors to the first floor. Their mood did not suggest a successful shoot and Frenchman took heart.

The young man continued to wrestle with the small gap and eventually persuaded it to allow the passage of his shoulders and thereafter his remainder. Exhilarated, he pulled himself aloft to find that could find purchase despite the sharp angle of the thatched cottage roof. From this new vantage he could view the moon-illumed mountain meadow and appreciate no movement. The panorama was reassuredly quiet.

Sad though were the clearly lit empty pens and the unkempt fields fallen fallow. It might have been years since they had seen crops laid and it spoke to Etienne of great loss and ruin. The downed fence lines perhaps suggested that the livestock had wandered free and that gave him some faint consolation. Here, the thatch was a wreck. There was no mystery now as to how he had burrowed through it so easily. It was uneven in age and depth, in sore need of repairs but it was plain that no honest hands would be here to salvage the farm anytime soon. Generations of hard work and maintenance all for nought.

The fugitive scrambled with agility along loose clumps of old straw to make his way to where it seemed the roof would be shielding his friend's prison. There he scouted for a spot where the bundles were thinnest and most disordered. There would be his best chance to find rotten timbers. Soon he was wresting the last weatherproofing from just such a weak point to reveal the weak wooden beams. Still, this wouldn't be easy. Could he pull them up somehow? It was not a tight fit and maybe he could get a hand through here or there. He spent a few moments puzzling through the problem and clearing the area more. His confidence was growing. Perhaps he could put one quick kick through the lumber and be into the cell.

Perhaps it was the removal of the dampeners that allowed it but Etienne was suddenly keenly aware of quiet voices nearby. He spun silently, seeking the source but an instant later he was startled to be lit up by candlelight! Instinctively making himself as small as possible, he clung to the roof and tried not to move. The flickering light was from Henri's room. Someone had entered. Would they see him? He dared not look. He dared not risk discovery. He dared to pray.

He recognized but a single word from their brief conversation and it chilled his heart.

"Ist Tot?"

"Ist Kaput."

Rage and Defiance assaulted the boy's thoughts but he fought them off. "No!" he thought. This is not how the Hussar's story ends. This is not how any of this ends. He could break into the room, kill the Germans and rescue his friend but that was lunacy. He knew he could do no such thing. He could not even get into the room before being shot dead. "Nothing rash." he told himself. "Nothing foolish."

The intruding bandits babbled incoherently to one another and suddenly were newly invigorated. They seemed to flee the room, withdrawing down the trap. Etienne could imagine exactly where they were going too though and an instant later when they discovered his own empty cell and candlelight flew through his escape route, the alarm was predictably raised. As the last dim shadows of light lingered in Henri's cell through its open trapdoor, Etienne bore witness to the pale, prostrate and still form of the Hussar.

The fusilier found this a perfect opportunity to panic.

The reader will imagine and hopefully sympathize with all the horrible emotions racing through our young hero's frightened mind. You may rest assured that just as you are in denial over the death of the heroic Henri, and just as you are believing he deserved a better fate, Etienne was rebelling against his senses with the same manifesto. Nevertheless, he could not dwell on the seeming loss of his friend any more than your narrator can at this time. No, he first must escape this scene alive before he can contemplate death and there was much to do yet. The guerrillas were all aroused and beginning to swarm like the protectors of some stove-in hive. He was in the exact first place that they would look for him and there was not a stitch of cover.

He had to move and he did. Pushing off from his perch, Etienne landed with a single foot on the very edge of the overhanging sill and sprung away in the next instant to throw himself into space. His tumbled landing was inelegant and he gave a Franciscan oath while rolling about to find his feet. While the wind was still out of his breath he ran. The course was away from the cottage and toward the declining hillside. Their runner was not far gone ere his pursuers began to bay and bellow. First one and then the others caught sight of their prey. Soon the entire band was chasing the fleeing Frenchman with all manner of threatening curses. Otto was somewhere at the back of the train but his voice rose above the rest with an assortment of threats offers and incentives for Etienne to cease his flight. It mattered not that the subject could not understand a word of it for the youth would not have stopped for anything. He was in the lead and he could sense so very clearly the widening span to the bandits. He felt good. He was winning. He was succeeding.

The clear night sky gave enough gray-light that when Etienne hit the crest, his path was laid out plain before him so that he did not follow that winding, wending way but hurried near straight and true across the rough countryside despite knowing that at any moment in that dim glow he could twist an ankle or throw himself headlong into a fall but no, he held to his feet and through it all kept along at great and steady pace while those behind fell further and further afield despite their efforts which, it must be said, were not so great as they once were and they commenced to slacken their pace and concede the race then to the fleet-of-foot farm boy cum fusilier who kept on running and running until he knew that he was clear.

Chapter X

Index