Then came Esslingen … and the parson’s daughter, a real sweetie, he recalled. He had never had much to do with women, liaisons were simply too awkward and got in the way, but the parson’s daughter had been something special.
What was her name again …? No matter.
Heidelberg in flames. Oppenheim in ruins. The destruction of Landskrone Castle. ‘Defortification of cities’ the generals had dubbed it, and he had enthusiastically helped with the campaign: the decimation of large areas of Kurpfalz and the destruction of towns in Württemberg and Baden and, with them, the livelihoods of the enemy population.
All of which Gamelin had used to embellish his own reputation.
If he could bring down the Citadel of Turin and save the lives of umpteen thousand French soldiers, sappers and miners, then they would surely appoint him to ‘Maréchal général des camps et armées du roi’–just like his great hero Henri de La Tour d’Auvergne, Vicomte de Turenne. Mind you, he would certainly refrain from treating his soldiers in the same humane way for that was just mollycoddling and undermined morale.
Suddenly the carriage stopped and Gamelin’s musings were at an end.
He straightened his jacket, got out of the carriage and looked around. They had stopped just in front of a main square. Behind them stood the fortified toll gate of Schottwien, whose defensive wall closed off the valley completely. At the other end of the square was another wall, and behind it a road leading through a dangerous cliff gorge, the Semmering Pass. It was impossible to get cross the mountains without paying a toll.
Just to make sure no gulden escape the coffers, thought Gamelin, smiling to himself. Efficiency appealed to him, irrespective of what form it took.
He noticed that the marketplace had an unusually large number of blacksmiths, wainwrights and saddlers; and there were plenty of hostels and drinking dives too, in which one could probably find all manner of distraction. They were no doubt profiting from customers of the harnessing station, for every vehicle that wanted to climb from the foot of Semmering up the steep mule track to the pass had to harness additional horses. Gamelin had made detailed inquiries in advance.
His adjutant came running up and saluted eagerly. He was a good head shorter than Gamelin, with a slight build and fiery red hair. He had served under the Maréchal de camp much longer than any of his predecessors and he attributed this fact to the deep awe he felt towards him. As a result, he tended to be over-correct in his manner.
‘Harness as many horses as necessary, irrespective of the cost,’ ordered Gamelin. ‘I don’t want to get stuck somewhere just because we don’t have enough horses.’
The adjutant nodded and saluted again.
‘I’m making you personally responsible, Frédéric, don’t disappoint me. Dismissed!’
Gamelin saluted in reply and his adjutant turned and ran off towards the harnessing station.
XVI
Lieutenant Wolff was riding at the head of his troop.
He kept thinking of the strange oath Antonio Sovino had made him take. He didn’t feel bound by it in the least, firstly because he despised the cleric, and secondly because, though basically a believer, he didn’t see why he should have to subject his faith to an apparatus of power. Any Tom, Dick or Harry could lay his hand on a book and say ‘I swear’ for in actual fact it brought no consequences in its train–neither for the person who broke the oath, nor for the book.
Wolff breathed in the fresh country air. How he had missed it in the city! He loved riding because it helped him to think.
When Tepser had told him he wanted to discuss something about the disease, he had known right away what to expect. Days before he had been informed that a veil of secrecy was to be drawn over everything to do with disease and its eradication. Unlike the plague victims, there would be no memorial column for these poor souls!
If he returned successfully from his mission and Tepser was still in office, he could be confident of receiving a decent additional salary as recompense. But if Tepser had been relieved of his duties in the meantime, he would probably have to look for a new position since he would be unable to explain his absence. He might even have to think about moving to another city. The same would apply to his men of course–and they knew it.
With the gates of Vienna far behind them now, they were making their way through the villages. At the mere sight of them, children were whisked indoors by their mothers, doors and windows hurriedly bolted and there were cries of ‘Look out, the Sulphur Unit are coming!’
The Central Patrol had acquired this colloquial nickname on account of their yellow coat lapels. Why the general population were so afraid of them, however, Wolff could never quite fathom. All they did was carry out orders, no more, no less. No innocent person had ever suffered at their hands and he reserved for himself a certain freedom of decision when carrying out orders. If he thought something was going too far–well, there were a few things he could do about it.
But it was better to be feared for no reason than sneered at with due cause, he thought. Just then the troop rode over the brow of a hill and they spotted a few farms, dotting the valley below them.
Wolff clapped spurs to his horse.
‘No convoy of waggons has passed through here, sir,’ said the old farmer, stretching out his hand.
Wolff looked searchingly at the farmer, then he let out a deep sigh. Why did people always have to make his life unnecessarily complicated by telling lies? All at once, he whipped out his sabre and held it to the farmer’s throat. The man began to tremble. ‘Three days ago, four at most …’ he stammered. ‘Stayed overnight in the plague farm … set off again at dawn … in that direction’ and he pointed with a trembling hand towards the south.
With a deliberately meek smile, Lieutenant Wolff patted the man’s wizened cheeks with his sabre and then dropped it back into its sheath.
The farmer took a step backwards, bowed his head and crossed himself three times.
Wolff swung his horse round and rode off in a southerly direction, his men following behind him.
XVII
After an evening meal of goat’s milk and bread, which a farmer’s family had given, or rather, been forced to give them, they were put up in their barn. ‘Living off of the land,’ one of the mercenaries had called it sarcastically, without taking his eye off the farmer’s daughter who wasn’t yet fourteen.
Elisabeth had felt a shudder go down her spine as she had watched him eyeing the girl. But what could she have done? Even all of them together would not have been able to do anything. And there wasn’t an ‘all of them together’ anymore anyway for the prisoners had started isolating themselves from each other, out of apathy perhaps or an unconscious feeling that there was no longer any point in forging friendships.
An unutterable truth hovered above them like a poisonous cloud: they were heading towards perdition.
But not Elisabeth. She had a plan and Alain was going to help her, even if it meant other people would have to die. She shrank from herself at the very thought of it. She wasn’t sure whether she would recognize her own reflection if she ever looked at herself in a mirror again. What had become of her?
‘Rest time!’ shouted the mercenary with the raucous voice, attaching two oil lamps to the ceiling beams. It always gratified him to see the way the prisoners jumped at his command. For the first time since her capture, Elisabeth had a soft floor to lie on: last autumn’s hay was warm and smelt wonderful and she felt as though she were lying on a bed of clouds.
The others were pleased too when the time came to lie down. Yet if the lamps were to fall on the hay, it would be the last night for all of them.
Elisabeth stretched, rolled onto her side and closed her eyes.
‘Elisabeth!’
She