Chapter 8
Le Boucher
Near Meridot, Egidienne County, Republic of Artagna
The horseless carriage was a fickle machine prone to breaking down at the most inconvenient times, but when it was working like it was supposed to, the sight of it would leave the average country bumpkin in awe. This was exactly the effect Colonel de Villein was aiming for.
Image was everything. It was why he embraced the title of 'Le Boucher' and actively cultivated a climate of fear about him. He needed to frighten people more than the Hessians so that they would rather fight and die than face the Colonel's displeasure.
It was for the sake of his image that he could not overlook even a single deserter and personally led the expedition to find this coward. At a time like this, Colonel de Villein ought to have been on the border, ready to meet the Hessians head-on the moment they advanced, but because of one man, he might miss his chance to be there on the front the moment first blood was drawn. The one thing that kept him going was the thought of flaying all the hide off the deserter's back.
If the fighting was supposed to be in the east, then the most obvious direction to run was west. Based on the word of the deserter's sergeant, there was little reason to expect any clever subterfuge. Artagna being the way it was played to the Colonel's advantage. With the population concentrated in villages and towns, the deserter could not stray far from the road if he wanted provisions for his journey. That greatly narrowed down the places he could go. The closest and most likely village on their current course was Meridot.
The Colonel cursed the deserter's company commander for waiting a full week before reporting him missing. He would have never gotten this far if the regiment had mobilized its resources sooner. To a degree, the Colonel could understand dealing with company matters in-house, but that did not excuse the commander for withholding information so long. Part of the commander's punishment was that he and his staff were made to march with the rest of their men. How many years had it been since he last had to do a proper forced march? His bones would remember it after this.
The deserter was unencumbered, but without supplies, he was probably not pushing himself too hard. Maybe fifteen kilometers per day, no more than twenty, surely. The Colonel hoped it was the former more than the latter. If the deserter made it to Sainte-Camieux and got on a train, there would be no catching him.
It was too much to hope for that the deserter was waylaid and lost some of the advantage his head start gave him. He could not hope for some strangers to hide him. His only chance was to get out of Artagna as soon as possible. Any delay could be the end of him. Surely he knew that much.
The Colonel had to resign himself to most likely gaining nothing more than a couple vague eyewitness accounts and even that was being optimistic. It would probably be best to go ahead and try to set up an ambush in Sainte-Camieux, but for that he should have brought more than a half-squadron of cavalry. He was not eager to admit his lack of forethought may have cost him his quarry.
It was around midday, so the town gates were wide open. The farmers would be out in their fields and the herdsmen would be with their flocks, which left the children too young to work, the women tending to those children and their households, the elderly, and the few tradesmen whose work did not entail tending to fields and flocks.
They proceeded to the town square, where the Colonel's carriage was brought to a halt and the men formed up. The Colonel dismounted and wasted no time addressing the men.
"I want four on horse and four on foot at each of the gates. No one gets in and no one gets out except by my leave. The rest of you, you have five minutes to relieve yourselves before you start going door-to-door, in pairs, and ask for any information about Chasseur Weissman. Unless you see the man himself, there will be no entering civilian residences at this time. If you meet any of the town elders, escort them here, politely, unless they give you reason to act otherwise. Am I understood?"
"Sir!" the men shouted in unison.
"Then get to it," the Colonel said. "Fall out."
"Fall out!" the lieutenants echoed.
"Five minutes, boys!" one of the sergeants could be heard shouting. "Water in, water out!"
Lieutenant Campos of the Villadot Volunteers, the same company commander at fault for the current situation, approached the Colonel and saluted.
"Sir."
"What is it, Lieutenant?" the Colonel asked, returning the salute.
"Would it not be better to coordinate with the elders first? If we don't, they could file a complaint with the prefect."
"And how many divisions does the prefect have?" the Colonel sneered.
"How many divisions do you have, sir?" Lieutenant Campos asked in turn. "Because last I looked, there is a single light company and a half-squadron of horsemen."
The Colonel gripped his swagger stick. If it had any life to it, he would have squeezed it out.
"It's not appropriate to strike an officer, even an impertinent one like you, Lieutenant," he said. He then eyed the Lieutenant's batman and told him, "You, come here."
"Sir!" the batman said crisply, stepping forward as directed.
The Colonel gave Lieutenant Campos a pointed look before taking his swagger stick and striking the batman on the collarbone. To his credit, the young man bore the blow well, but that only served to annoy the Colonel. He was trying to make a point and he would keep hitting the batman until that point was made.
"Colonel, stop!" the Lieutenant cried.
"Stand at attention, you!" the Colonel fumed, and continued to beat the batman.
It took the swagger stick breaking for the Colonel to finally stop. The batman stayed on his feet the whole time without retreating, but the swagger stick was too light to deliver a proper thrashing.
The Colonel glared at the broken stick for a moment before straightening himself up.
"I hope you have learned your lesson about how to speak to a superior officer, Lieutenant," he said. "You can be bringing me those elders since it's so important to you. Dismissed."
"Sir," the Lieutenant replied stiffly before he and his batman withdrew.
Lieutenant Galon, the Colonel's aide-de-camp, took the broken swagger stick and offered him a fresh replacement.
"You are so hard on these things, sir," he said, "but I suppose this is why you are my uncle's favorite customer."
The Colonel did not doubt Patrice appreciated the business, but he always seemed so exasperated to learn another batch of his work had been destroyed. Any sturdier construction and it would be the men on the receiving end of the Colonel's lessons that would end up broken and that was just a waste of human resources.
"I'd like to think I have more sensible people that that serving as officers in my regiment," the Colonel said.
"I doubt he will forget this lesson," Lieutenant Galon replied. "Conscientious men like that do not want to see others suffer on their account. Those bruises will stick with him longer than they do with that boy."
"It's why I did it."
"Of course, sir."
The Colonel looked around him. He could never tell one of these little towns from another.
"Do you think we'll find anything here?" he wondered aloud.
"Unless Chasseur Weissman chose to risk a lengthy detour, he almost certainly came this way," Lieutenant Galon said. "The question is whether or not he was seen. If he was clever, he would have raided supplies in the dead of night and no one would be the wiser."
"Surely they'd notice what was missing."
"People can be careless in small towns like this, sir. They leave their cellars unlocked, don't check their winter stores, leave clothes on the line and just figure the wind blew them away..."
So even if the deserter was here, there may well be no clues to go on.
About twenty minutes had passed when Lieutenant Campos returned to the town square with eight old men in tow. Colonel de Villein straightened himself up and puffed up his chest a little to give the proper first impression.
Lieutenant Campos approached the Colonel and saluted, saying, "Sir, I have brought the elders as requested."
Colonel de Villein returned the salute and dismissed the Lieutenant with a nod. He then turned to the men and said, "So you are the elders of this town. This is all of you?"
"There are nine of us," one of them said, "but Mr. Leiter is bed-ridden at the moment and could not answer your summons. I am Michel Lerner, the chief elder. And who are you, sir, and why have you brought all these men to our town?"
"Colonel Maurice de Villein, Third Infantry, commander," the Colonel replied curtly. "I am here because I am looking for a deserter, Chasseur de Deuxième Classe Carlos Alva Weissman, of the Villadot Volunteer Militia. One hundred and seventy-three centimeters in height, weight seventy-two kilos, brown hair, green eyes, probably with a week's growth of whiskers. By our estimate, he would have come this way about four or five days ago. Sound familiar?"
"If you have come all the way from Villadot, then I am afraid you have travelled far for nothing," Lerner said. "We have not been host to any deserters that I am aware of."
The Colonel was not going to be brushed off so easily, but before he could deploy any techniques to increase his persuasion, another one of the elders spoke up.
"What 'bout that young fella who was stayin' with Doc Furst? He had brown hair, as I recall, showed up 'round the time the man here was sayin'."
"A lot of people have brown hair, Clarence," another elder objected.
"But, Doc..."
Colonel de Villein approached the elder who objected and said, "I take it you are this 'Doc' Furst."
The elder's head shrank back like a turtle withdrawing into its shell as he said, "Doctor Horace Furst. At your service, Colonel."
"At my service? Then you can begin by answering my questions. Who was this 'young fella' who was staying with you?"
Though Dr. Furst showed signs of reluctance, he nevertheless did not hesitate to respond. A wise choice on his part.
"He called himself Kaarlsen. Came here about a week ago with this girl who was hurt. I treated her and when she was fit for travel, they left."
"When did they leave town?"
"Two days ago."
"Headed west?"
"Perhaps."
"You don't know?"
"I, I don't remember."
The evasion was annoying, but the Colonel kept his anger in check. He took his swagger stick and lightly tapped Dr. Furst's jaw, asking him, "Do you need some help jogging your memory, Doctor?"
Lerner stepped in and said, "They were going to Aix-Clovin. The girl has the Gift and Dr. Furst suggested they consult the Circle of the Mysterium."
"Consult them about what?" the Colonel asked.
"The girl is suffering from memory loss due to her injuries," Dr. Furst said. "I couldn't help her, but I thought someone from the Circle might. Anyway, there is no proof Mr. Kaarlsen is this Weissman you're looking for."
He did have a point. After all, even if you would accept the idea that Weissman would help some random girl, why would he allow himself to be waylaid several days when he could almost be at Sainte-Camieux by now? It was not how a deserter who valued his own skin would behave. Still, it was the best lead they had so far. If only there was something stronger to go on...
"Sir!" a voice cried out.
The Colonel turned to see one of his men running to him with a pair of boots in hand.
"We found these at the general store, sir," the man said.
They were standard Army-issue boots, not the sort of thing that would be sold in any ordinary civilian store. This was it, the evidence the Colonel was looking for.
The Colonel looked to the elders and said, "Care to explain, gentlemen?"
"You would have to ask Mr. Fuhrman the shopkeeper," Lerner said.
"Right here, sir," another one of the Colonel's men said, pulling a townsperson along by the arm.
Colonel de Villein approached the townsperson, who cowered as he got closer.
"You are Fuhrman the shopkeeper?" he asked.
"Ye-yes, sir," the townsperson said.
The Colonel pointed to the boots with his swagger stick.
"What can you tell me about those?"
"A, a, a drifter come in some days back, stayed here a spell, did some odd jobs here an' there, lookin' to earn a bit a' cash for the road. Had him do some work for me in my storeroom in exchange for vittles. Sold me them boots for five clovins."
Five clovins? They cost seventeen, the Colonel thought. He was going to have to take more than just the hide off Chasseur Weissman's back. Maybe he could take that hide and make a new pair of boots.
Giving voice to these thoughts, he asked Lieutenant Galon, "How much leather goes into a pair of boots?"
"A little over half a square meter, sir," the Lieutenant replied.
"And how many boots could you make out of a man's hide?"
"A good three pair, sir, with enough left over for some gloves if you so wished, though I would not recommend man-leather as a practical choice."
"Why do you know that?"
"As your aide, it is my business to know things, sir."
The shopkeeper audibly yelped and the elders did not hide their unease. The Colonel ignored them, though.
"Five clovins..." he mused.
"It could get one man to the border, sir," Lieutenant Galon said, "but apparently he is not alone."
That was true. Chasseur Weissman was travelling with a woman, and an injured one at that. It would slow him down. He might be lucky to make even ten kilometers in a day. Whatever his reasons for getting involved with that girl, it would be the death of him.
The Colonel looked to the elders once more and said, "I am sure you all are most eager to show the defenders of the Republic the hospitality of your town. Our fourrier will inform you of our requirements."
"Yes, of course," Lerner said with a hint of reluctance to his voice.
The Colonel then told Lieutenant Galon, "Assemble the men. Once they get some chow in them and we're resupplied, we march."
"To Sainte-Camieux then, sir?"
"To Sainte-Camieux," the Colonel replied, "unless we can find him sooner."