HONOUR AND OUTRAGE

Marechal-des-Logis Henri Darlon pressed his weight into the stirrups and rose higher in the saddle. He gained scant inches but it gave him a new vantage to assess the rank of thirty colourful horsemen, his platoon, deployed to the left.  Each of the halted Hussars wore the same sky blue tunic, jacket, and trousers. Their tall merliton headgear was of the same blue and all were mounted on strong chestnut steeds.  They did appear grand, thought Henri, but that did not prevent him from being put out by the bulge in the line where the Hussars in the centre were slowly creeping up closer to the back of the lieutenant. Twisting in the saddle, he could see that the second rank, a horse length behind, was similarly edging into a bow.

Henri let loose a reprimand that was deep and voluminous. "Dress that line! Control your steeds, gentlemen!" The mounts reacted as quickly as their riders. Ears twitched warily and they backed themselves into formation.

Then, with a slightly louder and more sinister tone, he added a directive. "Brigadier Pilon! Pay heed!" There was one thing demanded of those central Brigadiers yet they were acting as careless as recruits. Brigadier Pilon, a short man even for the light cavalry, gave a wrench upon the reins and so violently twisted his shame into anger. The Brigadier's aggressive correction did nothing to dissuade the chorus of laughter that rippled down the line in both directions.

Brigadier Heulot, to Henri's immediate left, made the critical error of smirking at his fellow's reprimand. He quipped, "Three too many bottles of wine last night, Gustav?"  This lapse in judgment earned Heulot a backhanded smack to the ear from the Marechal-des-Logis. The soldier's thick, braided hair that depended from his temples (his Cadenette) did nothing to dampen the sting. Dropping reins to grab at the ringing insult, the unfortunate Brigadier's mare danced a step forward and out of line with his comrades.

Heulot did not apologize but he acknowledged the right of it, saying "Yes Margis."

 Left of the errant Heulot, more horsemen began to instinctively echo the advancing movement.

More bellowing came from Margis Darlon and every soldier of the platoon was immediately alert to redressing the line. Lieutenant Banville canted his head back and peered over his right shoulder at his Marechal-des-Logis. The veterans exchanged a look and then Henri offered a nod to the officer. It was accepted and the Lieutenant looked again to the grassy rise that stretched off to the platoon's front. The hill made a near horizon that abutted a brilliantly blue and cloudless morning sky. Veterans such as Henri knew that view to be too near. It was standard practice to shield units behind the crest of a hill but today they were deployed blind. Piquets should be forward. Lieutenants could be sent to the hilltop to spy even. It was only a hundred meters, afterall.

All was quiet though. Henri's chestnut Burgundy remained absolutely calm beneath him. Rivoli and her master had come to understand one another. Unlike many of the less trained steeds, this animal fought her instincts of the herd and was ever obedient. Henri leaned in to give her powerful neck some strokes of assurance.

Somewhere near the coast, a battery of twelve pounders began to fire ordered volleys.

Tails flicked and riders shifted to fidget with their equipage. Muted banter intermingled with the jangling of harness and the squeaks of hard leather.

The platoon waited still alongside the others. Both platoons of the second company were formed together, one beside the other, and to their immediate left was the fifth company. Complete, the Second Squadron of the First Hussar Regiment mustered a line that was some hundred meters wide.

Between the twin companies, and several lengths ahead of his four lieutenants, Chef de Escadron Lambert sat distinctly isolated, mounted upon his grey. He did not even keep his trumpeters close. This officer insisted instead that they remain on the right flank. If they could not hear his orders then none could and if so, he had failed, he would say. Henri thought the Norman officer's voice quite weak but, to his credit, the man did recognize the fault. If he were to solicit his squadron, Chef de Escadron Lambert might have compiled a much more complete list of shortcomings.

Our Marechal-des-Logis twisted in his saddle.  No other units could be seen. He had no idea what forces might lie beyond the crest of the hill and now that those cannon were playing, he'd not expect much notice from sounds. A quiet curse was issued against the artillery arm in general. His calf muscles tensed but he did not spur his beast forward. Margis Darlon would remain in the ranks and trust to the officers, for now.

Idiots!

What did the Chef de Escadron expect to happen? Was he going to be entirely reliant upon a courier bringing an order? Perhaps he would command the squadron into action based upon mystic interpretations of his stomach rumblings. The Margis' own intestinal quietude was broken.   Behind him, Brigadier Calot's horse released a vile gas from its hindquarters. Marechal-des-Logis Darlon's impatience only grew.

With a flourish, Chef de Escadron Lambert unsheathed his sabre and raised it overhead.

"The Second Squadron will advance in line, at the walk."

Lieutenant Lambert and the other troop commanders drew their blades with audible rasps. Captain Tremain raised his own weapon to point and, without a glance behind, declared his command at the ready. "Second Company!" and the sixth Company commander did the same for his.

The mass of horses grew restless. They knew what was coming. Unable to help himself, Henri wondered where they were going.

The Chef de Escadron gave the march command and, imperfectly, the two companies started forward at an energetic walk. Too energetic, realized Henri. They were released like a cocking hammer. No dust rose up behind the two lines; it had been a moist spring but the green plain was churned by their passing.

Further down the line, in the center of the single ranked platoon, Brigadiers Pilon and Renaux paid due attention to keeping the exact distance of two lengths behind the lieutenants.

"Rein in. Stay back. Come forward. Hold up. Come on. Keep up. Keep dressed. Steady on."

One length behind Henri, Brigadier Carriere was laughing his ridiculous, high pitch laugh. The man, simply, loved to ride and it always thrilled him when the Squadron was deployed advancing. He was, thought Henri, a good man and even a good Brigadier but there was something about his manner that disagreed with Henri's own soldierly sensibilities. Carriere was fatherly to the troopers in the platoon; compassionate and patient. He could discipline when he needed to but the man rarely needed to. His troopers performed well not out of fear for Carriere. It was more as though they did not wish to break his heart. 

Cresting the hilltop, Chef de Escadron Lambert paused to look over the shallow valley now laid out before him.

Henri could not help himself and cried aloud "No!"  One of the four lieutenants had also begun to bring his ride to a halt. Another was slowing his mount up but the remaining two continued, looking expectantly to the Chef de Escadron for some command. In a few strides they had closed the distance to the Squadron Commander but by now the ranks had become disarrayed as individual soldiers tried to anticipate what the commander or their lieutenants wanted them to do. Too late, Chef de Escadron Lambert recognized his error and started forward but then he compounded the mistake and gave the order "At the Trot!"

The Marechal-des-Logis instinctively commenced to post, riding with the rhythm of the gait. Brigadier Heulot did the same, of course, but also paid attention to mocking those new troopers, barely three weeks in the saddle in some cases, that insisted on being awkwardly jolted on every second beat.

Behind Heulot, Brigadier Calot provided encouragement for the joker. His laughter was quiet though, not intended for general hearing. As much as Calot might have welcomed the good humour of Heulot, he knew that it was inappropriate. Still, Heulot was senior so Calot had no worries about needing to discourage the man. He could enjoy the merriment freely and still comfort himself with the knowledge that he was a better soldier for his self-discipline.

The first rank hit the hilltop in some disorder. Henri and the other Marechal-des-Logis in the Squadron were hollering up and down the length of the line trying to instill order in their platoons. They had to avoid doing this to excess, for fear that orders would not be heard. Even above the din of the hoof beats and distant cannons it was difficult to hear. Now there was also a slight breeze in the faces of the soldiers and the words were whipped about in this wind.

 Ahead, not three hundred meters away, was another squadron of cavalry. Uniformed in the same light blue and the same red and white trim, one company though was fitted with black bearskin busbies instead of the tall merliton caps. They were instantly recognized as the first squadron of the same regiment.

The first squadron, including both companies, was faced away from Chef de Escadron Lambert's second squadron. Certainly some had seen the Second cresting the hill and they were now alert to the imposition, but they were reacting from a disadvantage, struggling to get their wheel done.

Henri cursed with venom. The Chef de Escadron had gotten lucky. He'd hereafter think himself clever and would try this blind foolishness in battle. Such were the pitfalls of training.

All was not well with the second squadron though and it was clearly about to get worse. The increase in cadence had left the ranks serried and sundered. No sooner had the order fallen to ruin than the Chef de Escadron rose up and turned in the bouncing saddle to command his unit to wheel to the right.

Henri and Heulot, on the Squadron's right, immediately brought their mounts to an indignant and unruly halt. Were the hussars behind them lesser horsemen, they might have careened their steeds into the backs of the halted riders. They'd all have gone down in a heap. Brigadiers Carriere and Calot though had checked their pace professionally.

The leftmost end of the platoon continued at full canter pace and executed as sloppy a wheel as ever Henri had witnessed. Beyond, the fifth scrambled to catch up to their partner company. It shamed him. It mattered not a whit that this was due to ill-considered orders; the men should have performed better. He longed to bellow out and stop this mess before it got completely out of hand but he could only gnaw angrily upon his moustache. It was not his place.

When Chef de Squadron Lambert had adjudged the wheel to have brought the units into correct alignment for his desired ends, he issued the 'Forward' command just loud enough for Marechal-des-Logis Darlon to have caught it over the din of horse and riders. He didn't need to look to know that Brigadier Heulot might have missed it so he repeated the order for those around him. They stepped off together as well as could be expected. Sooner than Henri had reason to expect, the platoon, the company, and even the whole of the Squadron, had aligned its dressing and regained the common momentum. Still, only a scowl festooned the cavalryman's bouncing visage.

It was not simply aesthetics that demanded strict dressing of the ranks. Straight lines did ensure that no troopers were riding on enthusiastically ahead so to result in their being cut down without the immediate support of their comrades and it aided in keeping control but, by far, the greatest purpose was fear. Fear and her sister: Courage. When a soldier moves forward to do battle, his mind is constantly assessing the situation. How perilous is it to his person? Order, discipline, and rhetoric can never, and should never, remove the notion of self-preservation from a nation's warriors. They are ever alert to the moment where flight is necessary. Run too soon and there will be shame, ridicule, punishment and guilt for precipitous flight could encourage one's comrades to rout. You can kill your friends by fleeing too soon. So the soldier reads the battlefield and is, with every ragged breath, recalculating the odds for his own death. Our modern warfare techniques have not removed our primal instincts. They have only refined them.

As the second Squadron rumbled down the slight slope toward the First, the eyes of each trooper and veteran were sizing up their opponents. The First was wheeling, boldly, by platoons and it was precise. Their uniforms, with those bushy black bearskin busbies, were fantastic and made the Alsatians appear large and beastlike yet the men paraded their turn with cool, expert uniformity. Brigadier Heulot no longer joked for he saw, with alarm, that the First Squadron was maneuvering to face them with not a single soldier speaking a single word. The officers gave their necessary orders so nothing more needed be said.

Momentum though was on the side of the Second Squadron and the matter was escalated when Chef d'Escadron Lambert rose up in his stirrups and ordered his men to charge. With a "Hussah!" the Hussars raised their swords to point and urged their steeds into a gallop. They became a broiling, rolling rushing wall.

The world fell away from the Squadron and tilted. Their gravity was now the First Squadron. As they plummeted forward it seemed that nothing could arrest this rushing mass of horse and men . Yet, knew Henri, and every soldier on both sides of the charge, it had to be stopped. This was not war. One does not press home when training.

And on they rode; every breath was another chance lost to the madness. Henri and Rivoli fought to hold their line against the press of the center. The natural tendency in a charge is to widen so those on the flanks had to make a stand. Henri elbowed the encroaching Heulot to remind him of this duty.

Alarm was beginning to pale the faces of the First Squadron. Questions were now being asked among them but still they made no move to retire. A terrific rumbling told of the punishment that the thousand hooves were dealing to the earth. Every heart raced to echo the trembling rhythm.

Red-faced, the commander of the First Squadron screamed out orders to his men in German. Henri knew his counterparts would be giving stern words of encouragement. The Alsatians stand fast though the thunder rolls closer.

It had to be stopped; it could not be. Insubordinate, Henri cried, "Raise swords!"

The impact was terrific. Over the din of pained and frightened horses, angry and injured men, one might have heard the desperate order from Lambert to halt. Many mounts collided, kicking and writhing to preserve themselves. In desperate attempts to avoid brutal contact, accidents were inevitable. Some fairly sought to climb over others in the press. Some steeds went down screaming. So too did a small number of riders. If running with scissors is risky, riding at breakneck speed into a resolved wall of comrades while gripping a three-foot long razor blade makes grief a certainty.

There followed then a prolonged instant of shock as no soldier could think of anything beyond his own pains, and his survival. Did he remain mounted? Was he cut? Was he aware? Was he broken?

On both sides of the fracas, the cries of Officers and NCOs rose up seeking to put down the disorder. While the Second Squadron struggled to extricate and assess itself, a chorus of abuse heralded trouble.

An Alsatian, still mounted, reached across and grabbed Brigadier Calot by the dolman tunic. Rather than tug free, Calot instinctively readied to slash out with his sabre. He held back though and threw a failed pommel punch. All along the line, like-uniformed cavalrymen were engaging in individual scuffles. Vulgar Gothic accusations grappled with Gallic taunts in a chaotic entanglement.

When a flank horseman ventured to impose himself upon Henri, the Marechal-des-Logis rebuked him with a single raised finger and a glower that would tolerate no impudence. The trooper withered and looked to pull his steed free from the fray. The hue and cry from impotent officers was lessening. Henri, frowning, scanned though the escalating brawl to find his German counterpart. He spied Marechal-des-Logis Oldermann exactly where he ought to be but he, like Henri, made to effort to contain the fracas.  Oldermann seemed quite satisfied to watch the fight play itself out. He countenanced a decided smirk. Riders were being pulled bodily to the ground. Hearty punches were hurled. Heulot landed a square head butt. The first instance though of swordplay caught the attention of both Henri and Oldermann. With a narrowing gaze, the Alsatian brought his own sabre up to the ready. Henri though immediately began to pitch his own voice into the cacophony, urging, ordering, and begging all those who would hear to drop their blades.

"Soldiers of the First Hussars, order yourselves!"

Pinned under the weight of a larger Brigadier, Calot tried to heed his senior so stopped fighting just long enough to let a mallet of a German fist get past his lowered guard. Heulot was already dismounting to lend aid to his companion.

"Carriere, hold him" said Henri as he passed the reins of Rivoli to Brigadier Carriere, who  remained at the ready by his side. Leaning in to the flicking ears of his mount then he urged Rivoli to remain steady. Then, Henri popped his feet from the stirrups to carefully, warily, balance atop his saddle. He rose up to stand erect there and as soon as he was sure of Rivoli's reliability, he adopted a pose of singular swagger.

Head and shoulders above the broiling mess, Henri Darlon began to sing the dirge.

"Our old, weathered stock
has lost a stout branch.
My sadness, my brother,
gives no consolation."

It was the Regimental song. Henri was not a good tenor but it was a voice rich and musical to rise above all else. Standing atop Rivoli, Henri reveled in the moment and swung his arms in broad gestures. The brouhaha fell; the song rose as some of the Second Squadron joined in. What he did next though left his choir paused as he swung into the chorus, singing in German.

"The cries of the wind
that blow low o'er Kesmark,
My dear friends,
sing Adieu, Adieu"

He had hardly begun the chorus before the voices of the First Squadron had joined him. The battle, silently and immediately, was ended. A few Hussars were likewise perching themselves precariously atop their mounts. Those that failed and fell gained good-natured mockings. When the second verse began, everyone knew it would be in French and everyone sang it aloud.

"Nicholas de Bercheny,
The Grand Man, cries every day,
He has lost, the Poor Man,
All his children in a foreign land."

There was no shaking of hands, no making of peace between the two Squadrons of the First Hussars, but they stood there together, singing about the history of the Regiment, exulting in its traditions and brotherhood, and every one of them was moved.

"The cries of the wind
that blow low o'er Kesmark,
My dear homeland,
sing Adieu, Adieu"

Chapter III