HONOUR AND OUTRAGE
CHAPTER IV
As soon as Brigadier Calot spied the mill through a break in the line of gray trees, he broke ranks with his companions and trotted off to scout the surroundings. The landscape here was more ochre than the fields that they had manoeuvred on earlier, so this horseman’s light blue uniform seemed very lively against it. Too, the manner in which his equipment and pelisse bounced against the movements of his chestnut seemed to do as much to break the sober stillness of the rural setting as the increased volume of hoof beats. What wind there was swayed the treetops in silence. Brigadier Calot made no effort to discourage observation of his movements from the huddle of buildings that he skirted. It was not that anyone expected any kind of ambush at the hands of Oldermann and his First Squadron but nor did Henri wish to ride into any situation that was designed to be embarrassing. Calot rode the perimeter but Henri and Heulot did not need to wait for his return before riding through the open gates. Such walled settlements remained commonplace outside of the villages but it was more from tradition than necessity. The hard dirt yard, contained by walls and overlarge whitewashed brick buildings, was an enclave for the miller’s family and employees. Discarded straw and manure made a textured background to the enclosed yard just as the slowly creaking rotation of the water wheel informed the silence.
The riders had been quite for a long while. Once Henri had ceased joking, the other two had deferred to his mood.
Henri could not deny that he was anxious. Marechal-des-Logis Oldermann was well regarded as a swordsman. He was the Regimental Fencing Master. That did not mean that he was necessarily entitled to be regarded as the finest blade in the regiment but rather he was senior, sober, and capable enough with his sabre that the Colonel could trust him with the honour and responsibility of that title. Some formations, especially in the infantry, equated their fencing master with their champion. Some might go as far as to have absurd rituals whereby their champion would earn his place. The infantry though was ridiculous.
The cavalry took their sword work seriously. Their lives depended upon it. Also, the cavalry were masters of the sabre. Not the effete thing that Academics would play with but the heavy slightly curved blade efficiently designed to sever a man's arm or head with a single strong blow. A thrust was viable, for certain, but it was a thrust that was best done with a locked straight-arm, propelled by the momentum of a strong horse.
Duelling with sabres was a necessarily violent affair. Every blow committed would have the force to kill a man. Light wounds were not quaint punctures but deep gashes that laid tendons bare and left fingers in the dust. They were bad duelling weapons. Often, both participants would come away bleeding and furious. They were Hussar weapons though and Henri was not about to suggest that either he or his opponent was without the courage to risk the dangers of the sabre.
Marechal-des-Logis Oldermann was there at the mill, as arranged, with a modest selection of fellows. His companions still wore their bushy black, distinctive headgear with the brass chin scales. Oldermann though wore no headdress and had already set his sabretache, pelisse, and sword sheath aside. Much of a Hussar’s uniform, perfectly functional when on horseback, became ungainly encumbrances when they were obliged to go afoot. Henri Darlon dismounted, abandoned the reins to Heulot, and stood face to face with his adversary. Oldermann was a tall but well trimmed man on the far side of his forties. A Hussar beyond thirty was remarkable. The age difference gave Henri no false optimism for the other man’s posture was rigid and he held his unsheathed sabre out-turned at his side in such a way as to appear at once uncomfortable and casual. While the uniforms and hairstyles of the two men were identical, it was more than the stature and fair features of the one that marked the difference between them. While Henri’s demeanour was saucy and energetic, the Alsatian showed only disdain for his foeman. His eyes, that so marvellously seemed to match his tunic’s blue colouring, appraised Henri until a practiced sneer arched one side of his blond-haired upper lip.
It was at this point that Brigadier Heulot expected his senior to toss out some marvellously witty remark. It would have been an insulting cut that there was no known defence to. Oldermann would have been entirely disarmed. Heulot could think of a few such witticisms himself and the sharpness of his own silent tongue left him smiling. Henri though said not a word. He tilted his head to suggest that a thought had suddenly occurred to him while looking into the face of the taller swordsman, but he said nothing.
Oldermann’s gaze flicked to register the arrival of Brigadier Calot but then he dismissed the man and returned to staring at Henri Darlon. Calot shook his head for Heulot and then removed himself from horseback to match the opposite members of the First Squadron. Brigadier Calot then received the belt, merliton, and sabretache from Henri. He held the sheath as the swordsman drew the blade smoothly from it, and then the Brigadier withdrew. Instantly, Heulot began to whisper his wealth of wit into Calot's ear.
Sharp naked swords were held loosely in hands of each of the duellists. Both sought to project confidence and courage, ease and energy. A foe could be bested before any blow was struck. This contest had begun long before any challenge was given and even this fight was destined to affect the outcome of every duel, every relationship, that either man would ever again enter into... if they even survived it.
The two men had been serving in the same regiment for five years now. Oldermann had been with it some ten or more. It had been the Bercheny Hussars then and all orders were all still given in German. Marechal-des-Logis Oldermann was a relic of that age when the whole of the Regiment was Alsatian and he clung to the past with an iron grip. Henri could respect that. He knew intimately the value of traditions. They had never been enemies, these two men but nor could they be friends. Neither willing to change for the other, neither willing to concede the superiority of the other's ways, they were obliged to remain coolly detached. Certainly over the years there had been periods of thaw and moments of camaraderie but even if they could have become friends, both men knew that their roles and the expectations of the soldiers that they commanded, demanded that they remain aloof. This was an unspoken and perhaps misguided relationship, but each of them seemed in concord.
Henri watched the taller man closely. He noted the disdainful visage but was not discomforted by it in the least. A great many men had sneered derisively at Henri Darlon, but Henri had the confidence to know that it was only posturing. A man of merit, he had faith, could only ever have the utmost respect for him. A lesser man must fear his character.
Oldermann gestured with his free hand.
"Non." replied Henri.
Henri's spare palm opened and offered.
"Non." answered Oldermann.
There was nothing more to be done.
Behind dark windows, the Miller and his family watched with wide eyes.
Calot murmured a question for his friend. "If we have to, can we take them?"
"You take the short one." said Heulot. Calot but fumed in silence then.
The blonde Hussar's gaze flicked down to Henri's left knee and then back up quickly again to the face of his opponent. Too quickly, for Henri saw the move coming. Oldermann suddenly strode one pace forward and, as he did so, flicked his wrist even while tightening his grip. His reach thus extended, his sabre snapped up violently toward Henri's unguarded knee. Henri twisted swiftly though and was able to swing his sword across his body to parry the sharp steel aside. It was not ended there though for as if he perfectly anticipated this, Oldermann used the weight of the parry to propel an arcing downward strike that should have caught Henri Darlon still recovering his balance. What he could not have expected though was that the darker Hussar did not even try to recover from his twisting movement but instead spun along with it and was well beyond reach when he ultimately faced his foe again. It was deftly done.
Calot and Heulot began to back up as the fight was being pushed toward them. Calot showed his empty palms while he went. One of the Germans gave some words of encouragement to his own Marechal-des-Logis.
On came Oldermann, swinging and slashing, with violence and energy; energy that surprised Henri but it did not defeat him yet. Henri's parries were not precise but nor were they desperate. The pair circled one another, trading blow for blow, each ringing deflected, but Oldermann maintained his advantage. Henri launched a series of attacks but every time he did so, there was the other seizing the opportunity to try unbalancing him again.
The curved blades slid against one another in as fine a display of swordsmanship as any of the spectators might ever see. A beat to the third met with a rising riposte, only to be struck down by an out turned blade that twisted into a thrust! It was a brilliant move but the cool counter was an even greater marvel. These men were masters of their murderous weapons. Both Hussars were seemingly challenged by this flashing blade work and each was meeting that challenge.
The German's steel cut toward Henri's left eye, rising as it flew to bedevil the parry attempt. At the last, the Frenchman was able to stretch back his neck to avoid such a blinding gash. It stumbled him though and down he fell clattering amongst the flagstones and dirt. Before Oldermann could finish his work, the fallen man was scrambling away on hands and knees through a cloud of dust and straw. The damned Alsatians laughed.
The tall German was relentless. He offered no quarter and did not allow his enemy to rise. Fierce attacks rained down upon Henri (his back now to the soil) but his blade either caught each one to knock it aside or he managed to scamper away. What he could not gain was a real chance to get squarely to his feet. His instinct was to kick out, hoping land a boot that would likewise drop his foe. He could also try a grapple and get in close where sabres would be ineffective. Were this a battlefield melee, he'd have done any of those things. Today though he was not fighting for his life, but his honour. It was no matter if his opponent might be a scoundrel. Henri Darlon was not.
Another cruel cut, wickedly fast, slashed down toward Henri's bare head but he could neither parry nor dodge. His only chance... Reflex more than sense brought his left arm up in a desperate defence. The block should cost him his arm but the pelisse, the demi-jacket that hung so dashingly draped over the left shoulder, fortuitously flew up to throw itself upon Oldermann's sword. The fatal blow was blunted! The sabre snagged!
"No dishonour in that." was Henri's thought and as the enemy that towered over him gave a twisting tug of his sabre to set it free with a tear, the downed swordsman knew that his chance had come.
Somehow Henri found the impetus to fling himself upward, leading with a terrific thrust. The blade tip was propelled toward the target's horrified, unguarded face. Palm up. Blade in. The force of the leaping lunge removed all control from the assault and it sliced deep through the cheek, cutting teeth.
He could not help himself and so Oldermann fell, clutching at the bloody wound. His scream was terrible. Henri landed beside him and rolled away defensively. He was alert to the fight.
Immediately all the witnesses rushed forward to give succour. There was a pause as each looked to their opposites. Sabres remained sheathed. Oldermann screamed anew and frantically clawed at the gash as though he could close it up. Pulling at Calot's elbow, Heulot drew back and following a nod of acknowledgement from him, the defeated man's friends tended to the wound.
For Henri, a curse hovered unarticulated. His heart still galloped and he could not find the command to rein it in. Unable to focus, he simply watched Oldermann master himself. The screaming stopped and the soldier once more took control of the fleshy, mortal man. That soldier's blood-soaked hands trembled now, ordered by stern will to remain by his side. Oldermann's strength pulled Henri's thoughts to ground. His own hands at least were not shaking. "I shall fetch a surgeon" he said.
"Nein" was the distracted answer from the one man that was already stitching up his Marechal-des-Logis' face with coarse thread. "We will take him." There was no recourse to argument. Still something had to be done. Henri reequipped himself from the Brigadiers. Calot was dispatched to tip the miller a small amount. Heulot would stay to lend assistance to the Germans.
"But what if they turn on me?" asked Heulot.
"Pish!"
It was a wordy dismissal of the Brigadier's concerns. This, there was no answer to. These Germans were in his regiment. They were companions in arms, men of honour. No matter their language or blood, they were messmates. Even were they not, they were soldiers of France.
The leather of the saddle gave that vaguely reassuring creak as Henri settled into it. He gave a respectful nod to Oldermann that went unseen and then he pulled Rivoli's head away. With a click of his tongue, he put the scene behind him.
As soon as he was beyond earshot of the mill house, our Hussar commenced to sing various verses of 'The Drum Major's Daughter'.