A Jester’s Fortune

display before his new-awarded army.

Salutes were exchanged, to-one s-face politenesses said before the troop review began. A horse was led up, a magnificent dapple-grey gelding, bedecked with all the martial trappings due a commanding general. The young man flung off his overcoat to expose his blue tunic, heavy with gold-lace oak wreathing, the sword at his side, the red-white-blue sash about his waist. By sheer perseverance-his thighs would never be strong enough to make him an excellent horseman-he'd become comfortable in the saddle at the old military school at Brienne.

No matter the egalitarian or fraternal ideals of the Revolution, the young general knew that the men in the ranks still stood in awe of the mounted, of those who could master a horse. A short fellow, as the general was, could loom over even the tallest of his hoary grenadiers. First impressions were important.

Instead of forcing the troops to churn the mud of the camp in order to pass his reviewing stand, their new general went to them, clattering from unit to unit, sabre-chains and bitt-chains jingling. And in most of the demi- brigades and battalions he saw, those that had served at Toulon-in his batteries on the south side of the harbour, or in the midnight charge in the rain upon L'Eguillettes Fort, where his 2,000 reserves had rallied old General Dugommier s 5,000 after they'd broken, and had conquered-he found familiar faces. And with his encyclopaedic memory, he came up with names and ranks to match those faces, and old japes to dredge up in comradely bonhomie.

He left a sea of smiles behind in every unit, those veterans he'd called to by name standing prouder among their fellows.

'Soldiers of France!' he called, once he'd completed the review and taken a stance atop a pile of boulders near the edge of the parade ground. 'Soldiers of the Army of Italy… hear me! You are hungry. You are shoeless, ragged and tired. You have not the price of bread, meat or wine, and your pay is in arrears. And that is in assignats, not coin. Soon the Piedmontese, the Austrians, maybe even the 'Bloodies,' the English, will come against you. They intend to beat you. They still mean to defeat you, and with you… la belle France, and our Revolution! Then grind our nation into the dirt, and impose their kings and princes over us once again! Our foes are implacable. Therefore, so must you be. So must we all be!

'With me from Paris, I have brought General Chauvet, our paymaster. With gold! With coin!' the young general added quickly, before his soldiers could jeer and whistle at the mention of 'Paymaster.'

'Funds with which to buy rations, boots and blankets, at last.'

He lied well, did the young, diminutive general; there were but 8,000 Meres in gold coin, nearly all the bankrupt Treasury could give him, and 100,000 livres in bills of exchange-unfortunately drawn on the Bank of Cadiz, from a doubtful 'friend,' royalist Bourbon Spain-which no one might honour, not even the Savoians.

'France assigns this to you, soldiers, knowing even then they are still deeply in your debt for your past service,' he continued, not even daring to turn and look at the commissioners, those civilian watchdogs and spies from the Directory, who could ruin a man, ranker or general, with a single letter-as damning as any lettre de cachet had imprisoned or murdered people before the Terror, when aristocratic back-stabbing was at its height in the days before the Revolution. A mention of 'debt' owed could be construed as defeatist talk, spreading gloom and bitterness among his own troops!

'On all sides we are beset, soldiers,' the general went on in a surprisingly powerful voice from such a wee frame; for he was deep-chested, if nothing else. 'For now that is all that France has, and they send it to you, to ready you for another season's campaigning… to sustain you for a time, so we may defeat our foes, and protect all we cherish! All they have, to you, most of all!

'Soldiers of France, I have seen you… proud veterans of four years of fighting!' He bellowed. 'We know each other, from earlier battles, hein? And I am most satisfied with your bearing… ragged though you are… because I see your pride! Your unflinching devotion to our Republic… and the steadiness of your eyes! Such men as you can never be beaten! With troops such as you, France will never be beaten! With hearts as stout as yours…!'

'Cheap theatrics,' General Augereau grunted softly. 'Jesus fucking Christ! General Scherer was an ass with ears, but a modest ass. Now, who pops up to replace him but-'

'He's good, Charles,' General Andre Massena whispered back from the side of his mouth. 'Have to give him that. Brilliant.'

'Brilliant doesn't pay the whore,' Augereau grumbled. 'He marries Paul Barras's former mistress, this new bride of his… a favour for Barras, now he's one of the Five. And he gets us as his reward for taking the blowsy cunt… pardon а moi, the 'incomparable Josephine,' to wife. And if he shows me that miniature portrait of the bitch one more time, I'll rip his tiny leg off and beat his tiny skull in with it! That'll shit on his puppet show!'

General Andre Massena feigned a cough, partly in warning for the incorrigible Augereau to stop murmuring and carping; and partly so he could hide his helpless snickering fit behind a gloved hand.

Hello, what was this, he heard, though…?

'Soldiers, to the east and south lies our duty!' Their elegant little general was roaring, pointing like a bronze statue for a far horizon, which prompted some of his troops to turn their heads to look.

'There lies Piedmont, ruled by that bloody-handed tyrant, their Victor Amadeus II… father-in-law to the beast who would come to rule us again, Comte de Provence… who would be King Louis XVIII! There lies aristocratic Austria, who would trample our beloved France beneath the boots of their enslaved peasants, yet deny them the rights you as free, Republican Frenchmen enjoy!

' Piedmont, soldiers!' The general shouted. 'The Po Valleys, the great cities, teeming with untold wealth! Austrian provinces in thrall to despots! There! There is where I will lead you this year! There is where we will be victorious. I will lead you into the most fertile plains in the world! Rich cities and great provinces will be in your power! There, in Italy, soldiers… is where we are going to take the fight to our foes. There you will find honour, glory… and wealth! In Piedmont, in Lombardy… there we will gain victory!'

Loot and plunder, clean linen, purses bulging with gold, or things as simple as a belly or knapsack full of bread, meat, cheese and brandy, with a ration-waggon to follow along behind with more. Their little replacement general had lit a fire under them, Massena had to admit. He'd taken them by the throat and made them stand taller, of a sudden. The raucous cheers, the screams of avarice and pride, with the promise of glory-to-come now aflame in them, were deafening.

Even with the organised might of Royal France at their backs, armies larger and better trained than this one, Massena recalled, had come to grief twice in the last hundred years. Maillebois and Villars had both failed to invade Italy. So what did the summer hold for this tag-rag-and- bobtail army? he wondered. And wondered, too, had the Directory given him the command he'd lusted for so eagerly, would he have attempted anything this damn-fool daring?

'Mon gйnйrals' their new commanding officer said, once he'd quit his crag. 'Junot, the list. See to it that these five generals of brigade are dismissed at once. I see no fire in their bellies or wits in their skulls. We begin tightening discipline and drill now. This instant. Berthier has the details for you. But I want this army of ours to be drilled, shod, clad and ready to march by the end of the month! There will be no half- measures. Discipline is the nerve of the army, and I will see it taut as a bowstring-or else!'

The general had removed his huge cocked hat with its wide gilt bands and Tricolour rosette to address the troops man-to-man, letting his rich chestnut hair fall free to either side of his face, like any good Republican, as common as any man in the ranks. Now he clapped it back on, called for his horse and sprang into the saddle with haste, as if not an idle minute could be wasted. He suddenly seemed two feet taller, even without the horse. Impatient with his spurs, he galloped away, with his aides scurrying to catch him up.

'Goddamn,' Augereau breathed, now that it was safe to speak aloud. 'Chilly fucking blue eyes he has. Did you notice?'

'Alert as an eagle, Charles. Rapt, I think the 'aristos' once called it.' Massena agreed. 'Impatient. Restless.'

'You know, Andre, I can't understand it,' Augereau grunted almost in awe. 'Been a soldier all my life…'

That wasn't strictly the truth; he'd flogged stolen watches on the streets of Turkish Istanbul, taught dancing in