CHAPTER 43: THE EAGLE OF AUSTERLITZ (PART 1)
The weather was decidedly cold on the morning of December 2nd, and even if he had wanted to, Harry felt that he could barely close his eyes all night. Called upon to watch over the fire surrounded by a multitude of tents where his unit comrades slept like logs, he contented himself with reviving the blaze that somewhat warmed his body and that occasional fine rain threatened to extinguish if he didn't pay attention.
Other soldiers, stupefied by the alcohol they had found in the few nearby properties of the camp or simply too nervous to sleep, were bustling around the tents. Some lucky ones were accompanied by a small Slavic woman found along the way, who probably wouldn't end the evening as decently dressed as she was on arrival.
Harry kept his eyes fixed on the fire, determined not to fail in the mission assigned to him, however uninteresting it may be. For the moment, his main task since accompanying the Emperor's Grand Army to this lost territory of Moravia was to revive the embers of a fire made erratic by the occasional gusts of wind. Of course, no one questioned his war skills, although some soldiers were surprised to see such a young man participating in yet another conflict whose origin dated back to the very year of his birth. But Pajol had never sent Harry into combat, preferring instead that he undertake subordinate tasks that bored him deeply.
Initially thrilled to participate in this campaign, although equally nervous, Harry's enthusiasm quickly waned when he realized that he probably wouldn't confront other enemy soldiers. Engaging in combat against opposing units that he would have liked to cut down with his weapon, taking their troop's standard and presenting it to the Emperor, was not on the agenda. No, reviving the embers of a fire made erratic by the wind was probably the liveliest activity he had engaged in so far, while his kit still gleamed with cleanliness. Until now, his saber had only cut twigs that he had amused himself with cutting to pass the time. His uniform, spotted with mud, had not, unlike others, had the honor of being pierced by a bullet impact or the blade of an enemy. He had not yet mourned the death of his horse, unlike others who now had to wait for its replacement or simply walk alongside the garrison.
Sometimes, he wondered why he wanted to experience the difficulties that every soldier hoped to avoid. While he ardently desired to face death sword in hand and musket banging against his back when trotting on his horse, others aspired to relative tranquility, warmly nestled in their respective homes with a young wife to whom they had already given several children. Perhaps indeed, his too young age prevented him from understanding the other men in his garrison.
"I wonder if it's better after all," he thought, recalling the many times he had seen his comrades lamenting the absence of their wives, or, conversely, taking advantage of this distance to be in the company of pretty German and Austrian women to pass the time.
In those moments, he often thought of Daphne, but not in the same way that soldiers thought of their wives. His fiancée was still just a young girl soon to be of marriageable age, a flower that was finishing blooming to adorn herself with her finest attributes solely for her husband. On the other hand, a husband who wished to scrupulously respect one of the Church's fundamentals, which was to honor his wife and offer himself to her only at the very moment of their union. So, as for the foreign women he encountered, he preferred to feign indifference and hide behind his youth to avoid giving them any ideas contrary to his principles. Above all, to avoid thinking about Daphne, he preferred to immerse himself, as he did tonight, in this war whose stakes he didn't fully understand but which mobilized a massive army far beyond French borders.
The new campaign had indeed started in August with a lightning movement of French troops from the shores of the English Channel. They had been stationed there until then due to a hypothetical massive landing in England. Instead, they moved towards Germany to face the movements of Austrian and Russian troops, allies of the English as well as the Neapolitans. The invasion of Bavaria, an ally of France, by the Austrians served as a pretext for this movement. In just twenty days, French troops were already in Mainz and, through the Main Valley they crossed and Donauwoerth on the Danube, Napoleon came to cut off the retreat of General Mack, aggressor of Bavaria.
Divided into seven corps plus an intermediate one, Harry and his regiment had joined that of Marshal Murat, who commanded the reserve cavalry. The other seven corps were under the command of Bernadotte, Davout, Soult, Marmont, Lannes, Ney, and Augereau, respectively. So far, the cavalry had been relatively little called upon during the battles, and to be honest, Harry had been quite bored during the journey. It seemed that his corps was never truly decisive in the battles, even less called upon by the Emperor. Only a few soldiers had the distinguished honor of engaging with the enemy in short skirmishes. Nevertheless, he had the opportunity to discover new countries, new landscapes, new communities and populations. He also realized that in war, soldiers ignored their feelings to become low-level plunderers and dishonest men, far from the almost chivalrous ideal he had imagined for the profession of a soldier.
The battles had truly begun to involve his corps only as they approached Ulm, where Marshal Ney had to face the troops commanded by Austrian General Mack. Yet, once again, disappointment arose when Murat, sent to support Ney, only engaged a few cavalry regiments in the conflict. Only the 18th, 19th, and 25th regiments of dragons, along with the 1st hussar regiment, provided assistance in the fights near Ulm. As for the 4th hussar regiment, it once again contented itself with reconnaissance missions and rear support, never on the front lines.
In any case, victorious at Elchingen on October 14th, the French troops did not need them during the siege of Ulm and the surrender of Mack, entrenched in the city, on October 20th. The road to Vienna was now open, a previously evacuated Austrian capital that offered no resistance when the French entered on November 15th. However, the Austrians had joined forces with the Russian troops stationed further north, and the deadline for a decisive battle was fast approaching.
Harry's stay in Vienna had left a significant mark on him. Until then, he had never known a capital other than Paris and London. A few decades earlier, like any son of European nobility, he would have traveled the continent to discover new lands, new cultural places, and societies. Perhaps he would have attended the courses of various academies of sciences and arts in each country he traversed. He would have seen Vienna in a different light, a much quieter and relaxing place where cafés were probably the most numerous in all of Europe, and where one could encounter people of all nationalities. But today, he came as a conqueror to this city, accompanied by an armed troop that already imagined stripping the capital of its wealth for the sole reason of inadequate pay that needed compensation.
Moreover, knowing that a distant part of his family lived here left a bitter taste in Harry's mouth. It felt like betraying a family he didn't know, to which he was remotely connected, and that he was now driving out of his territory for a war in which he served as a mere artisan. Harry especially feared the reaction of his distant uncle when he learned of his participation in this campaign. The claimant to the throne of France had previously stayed in Vienna with all the French emigrants who had fled the revolution, swearing to return triumphantly to their former homeland. But today, he had to flee again towards Russia, to the small province of Latvia, where he often languished around a court that sought to imitate Versailles but was not even its pale reflection.
"Today, Russia is probably the place where they would be safest now," he thought darkly, considering that just a century earlier, this country was still considered a wild land populated by all sorts of barbarians.
Louis XVIII would probably not appreciate knowing that he was among those condemning him to flee further into Europe to escape Napoleon's troops. The next family meeting would obviously be much less friendly than in the past. This realization left him with a slight pinch in his heart at the thought that he was somehow betraying a part of his family. Yet, deep down and honestly, he knew that his family ties with the Bourbon branch of France were only connected by a few branches with the House of Savoy and a fake birth certificate claiming him as the son of a descendant of Louis XIV. For the rest, it was probably better that no one knew.
Harry was also surprised to feel such sentiments for a family to which he was only connected by magical adoption. Meanwhile, his former family, the Potters, had been his true affiliation for a few years, and strangely, he did not feel the same about having abandoned them. Had the umbilical cord been definitively severed, or did he finally feel the weight and dynastic importance of his adoptive family? In any case, he now felt much more French than English, and indifference completely consumed him when he thought that during this campaign, he could have aimed at the scarlet uniform of his former homeland.
At the moment, he was unlikely to encounter any Englishmen in this small piece of territory, unlike the Russians and Austrians who were only a few dozen minutes away. Walking north, the French had indeed found the trace of the coalition forces near a small town called Austerlitz, in the midst of Moravia and its bleak landscape, saddened by winter's arrival earlier than usual this year. The mud had invaded the surroundings due to a fine but continuous rain, and a weather that did not promise any respite in the coming days. The battle was likely to take place in conditions far from everyone's aspirations.
The coalition forces, located a few kilometers away, had an advantage over the French in controlling an elevated plateau called Pratzen, and their artillery might bombard the French infantry if it dared to approach. Yet, it was said that the Emperor himself had left the monopoly of this place to the enemy, knowing full well that they would have the advantage of the terrain. Although this decision caused some unrest, it was nevertheless accepted by the high command. As for the soldiers, since when did they have a say in the decisions made by their superiors? Harry, like the others, remained silent and preferred to trust the Emperor's judgment. Napoleon probably had a good plan in mind to expose himself so openly to his adversaries. Some gunfire in the last few hours in tiny skirmishes suggested that tomorrow morning, this dull and nondescript territory would turn into a sea of blood, echoing the clash of bayonets and the sound of bullets.
Sighing, Harry stirred some logs as the loud conversations around him seemed to subside with the passing time. Were the others lucky enough to sleep? Had someone recommended silence to avoid alerting enemy scouts of their presence? Or had the soldiers' fear robbed them of the use of their mouths? He wouldn't have said no to a little night's rest, comfortably under his blankets in the Lieutenant Colonel's tent. Due to his young age, the Colonel thought it wise to have his protégé sleep in the same tent as him rather than in the midst of soldiers who took advantage of his youth to mistreat him. Above all, Harry feared that this sleepless night would harm him tomorrow, leaving him unable to stay in the saddle, charge the enemy, or even simply use his wand. But his intuition, or perhaps just the occasional resentment that overcame him, whispered that Pajol had consciously and intentionally ordered Harry to perform this task to let him rest tomorrow, confined to the 4th regiment's camp for subordinate tasks. This possibility only made him dread the day ahead even more. It had been nearly five months now that he had been on the paved roads and beaten paths of Europe, doing nothing but accompanying men to death without ever teasing it with his saber, only able to eat his ration far from the lavish meals of Lamballe, and having to wash in the rare watercourses he encountered when a foamy bathtub and warm water awaited him at his estate. Oh yes, this campaign was boring, but it made him regret his loved ones, the material comfort in which he had lived until now, and the presence of a comrade by his side to better endure this campaign in the most remote territories of Europe. What wouldn't he have given to be with Nicolas and participate in his escapades? What wouldn't he have done to spend a few hours with Jules doing nothing but discussing literature and poetry? What wouldn't he have accomplished to see once again his two mothers, his little sister, his godfather, and more generally his friends and acquaintances comfortably on his properties? Harry knew that this feeling would pass, but at this moment, he would have been willing to give up part of his pay, and perhaps also endure a sermon from his superiors, just to be away from here, stirring logs and performing tasks that didn't even require magic.
"Are you sleeping, Bourbon?" Vanhoeven asked from behind as he approached.
"What? Oh, uh... no, no, I was thinking," he replied evasively once the surprise of his superior's appearance had passed.
Vanhoeven didn't respond but rather settled down beside him, adding more pieces of wood to the fire.
"It's never good to be distracted," he declared wearily, looking up at the dark and cloudy sky above them. "Especially when we know that the Russians and Austrians are only a few leagues away. If a squadron were to swoop down on us, you should have been one of the first to notice their presence and raise the alarm. Our lives are in your hands, Gabriel."
"Excuse me in that case," he replied sheepishly. "Feeding this fire isn't the most exciting activity, but I hadn't thought my role was limited to just that."
Again, Vanhoeven didn't reply, but the pat on the back he gave him was enough to understand that his superior wasn't truly upset by his slight lapse.
"Ah, Bourbon..." he sighed. "Is this your first real participation in a conflict? You'll see more, and like everyone here, you're probably much more nervous than you let on. Your baptism of fire will happen in a few hours, so I couldn't blame you for having your mind elsewhere... I remember that in my first battle, I was so nervous that I almost drowned in a river as we entered Italy. Fortunately, a comrade pulled me out of the water before my gear dragged me under."
"And then?" he asked urgently. "Did you fight?"
"Oh, yes, but if I had been much more relaxed, I would have noticed that the person who saved my life had fallen into the water while rescuing me, and unlike me, there was no one to help her get out."
At that thought, Harry couldn't help but swallow, but Vanhoeven didn't seem particularly troubled by his story.
"All that to tell you, Bourbon, that you might make mistakes tomorrow, like everyone does, but there's no need to worry about that as long as it doesn't harm your entire regiment. You won't be allowed to make the same mistake twice, and I could be much less forgiving the next time I catch you daydreaming."
Then, as a smile spread across his face, Vanhoeven continued:
"I wouldn't worry about you if I were in your place. After all, I don't know if it's true, but they say that some people have war written directly in their blood based on their ancestors, and your lineage means that illustrious war leaders in the past brought glory to France, even if it was ultimately achieved by the blood of soldiers who died for their leader. But aren't we in the same situation today? Our country has changed regimes, but we still battle for the cause of one man. We die for the designs of one and the same person, and in the end, only a small group of privileged individuals receive the laurels of glory while others die on the battlefield... Yes, maybe after all, nothing has changed, and probably nothing will change in the future. But you, I feel that things will work out for you and that the change will come sooner than we think. A Bourbon, even a simple subordinate, always ends up following in the footsteps left by his ancestors, and who knows: Maybe one day, I'll have to follow the orders of a Bourbon marshal?"
"I didn't know that in addition to being a cavalry officer, you were also a seer," Harry couldn't help but reply in a mocking tone.
Far from appearing offended or angry at his audacity, Vanhoeven burst into laughter, attracting the curious looks of the few men lingering around the fire.
"Maybe..." he said after a while. "I might as well become a fortune teller once these wars are over and my service in the army is done. But you see, fortune-telling is not an exact science, just like the outcome of a battle can't be predicted before the fighting even begins. And honestly, isn't it more exciting to sabre an enemy than to observe signs in a teacup or a glass ball?"
"Viewed that way," Harry agreed. "Colonel shares your view on fortune-telling since, as far as I know, that subject is still not taught at the academy."
Vanhoeven responded with a nod of approval, then again, he lapsed into a silence that was beneficial for both of them; Harry had almost forgotten that in a few hours, his interlocutor, just like him, could well die from a stray bullet or a saber blow to the heart.
"Forgive my curiosity, but shouldn't you, like everyone else, be resting for tomorrow?" he resumed after a few minutes.
"Indeed, but not everyone has the chance to sleep in the same tent as their superior," Vanhoeven replied negligently. "Montebello is not as accommodating as Mr. Pajol when it comes to sleeping without disturbing the sleep of his comrades, and it's impossible for me to close my eyes and try to rest when the tranquility of our tent is disrupted by the incessant snoring of our comrade..."
"You don't like him, do you?" Harry asked, knowing full well that this was the case.
The tightening jaw of Vanhoeven was enough to confirm his intuition, but one had to be blind not to realize that these two couldn't go a day without engaging in verbal jousts where each sought to gain the upper hand over the other, all in the eyes and under the nose of Pajol. The origin of this mutual hatred was unknown to him, but Harry certainly wouldn't investigate this persistent and impossible-to-stop animosity. Even after so many years without seeing them, he couldn't forgive Dumbledore, James, or even Matthew for their stay in England, so he certainly wouldn't go as far as to give them moral lessons about it.
"Let's say I don't hold him close to my heart," Vanhoeven declared, giving a cold look at the fire in front of him. "But in war, you have to overlook your squabbles, and I wouldn't hesitate to help Montebello if his life were threatened. As for him doing the same for me, I have some doubts about that..."
Feeling that the discussion was now closed on this topic, Harry turned his attention back to the object of his vigil, an object that persistently threatened to go out if he wasn't careful. The desire to use his wand to rekindle the fire was strong, but respecting Pajol's orders, he suppressed it and refrained from reaching for the holster attached to his arm; His regiment wasn't the only one composed solely of wizards, but it often happened that Muggles showed up inside their camp and mingled with the other army units. Suffice it to say that revealing to the eyes of the rest of the troops that wizards were fighting alongside them could seriously jeopardize the success of the battle.
Instead, he thought about Vanhoeven's words; Would he also go so far as to assist someone he hated? Someone who might have harmed him in some way and to whom he couldn't forgive or even set aside his reservations to save? It would be like asking him to save someone like... Boulanger. Strangely, he could easily imagine himself disregarding his cold indifference towards him, but when he thought of other people like his father or his brother, he wasn't sure anymore if he would extend a helping hand if their lives depended on it. Perhaps his judgment was influenced by the years of abuse he had suffered at the hands of James, or by the undisguised joy Matthew displayed when he was beaten by their father, but he couldn't shake off the idea that in such circumstances, his basest instincts might resurface. Maybe, in the end, this campaign was just expressing in advance the bias that would be his in the future when Voldemort returned, but between the devil and the deep blue sea, Harry still preferred to choose the third option, which was precisely to choose nothing. His former family and the Dark Lord could go to hell; he wouldn't take part in their little war.
The evening continued tirelessly, with nothing else to do but wait, stirring logs and barely glancing at the watch on his wrist. Harry noticed it was close to three in the morning, and much of the camp had fallen silent. Beside him, Vanhoeven remained in a relaxing silence, calmly smoking his pipe and observing the few stars visible in the night. Harry, however, couldn't stop moving his legs, frozen by the cold, and an irresistible urge to doze off constantly lurked, waiting for a gesture or the closing of his eyelids to take him to the land of Morpheus. But each time he found himself drifting away with fatigue, a sudden reminder from his mind told him not to, that it was no longer nap time. The entire camp relied on him to stay awake and alert to the slightest movements of the enemy, and sometimes it was the scrutinizing gaze of his superior, feigning indifference, that made him abruptly raise his head.
Suddenly, distant shouts were heard in one of the camps, but it was impossible to tell which one. Harry was tempted to go and shake the bell usually used to alert comrades of an imminent danger, and Vanhoeven seemed to be thinking the same. However, paying attention to the sudden clamor, neither felt it was an alarming cry or a call to arms; rather, it sounded like cries of joy, jubilation, shouted at the top of the lungs by a small group driven by alcohol and a lack of discipline to make themselves heard by all.
Soon, a multitude of lights appeared in one of the camps facing the Pratzen plateau, where these strange cries seemed to originate. Soldiers lit torches, and the flames soon found an echo in the surrounding camps. The same cheers resonated throughout the valley as this sudden joy spread. Had the Allies given up? Had the enemy troops secretly withdrawn? Curious, Harry turned his gaze to his superior to observe the emotions that might reveal the meaning of all this commotion. Unlike him, Vanhoeven seemed calm, almost euphoric, and a sincere smile gradually appeared on his face. Without warning, he suddenly stood up, grabbed a log lying nearby, wrapped it in a conveniently dry cloth soaked in alcohol, and slid it into the fire to ignite it. The torch that emerged a few moments later was quickly pulled from the blaze, and lifting it in the air, Vanhoeven exclaimed in a voice that could have awakened the entire camp:
"Long live the Emperor! Glory to the Empire!"
Surprised by his act, Harry saw that his gesture was echoed all around, and soon, he couldn't look at any particular spot without seeing a whitish glow shaking, giving the impression that the multitude of stars in the sky had fallen to the ground and were now moving amid the troops, chanting Vanhoeven's cry in unison. It was then that Harry remembered the date, December 2, and a moment of lucidity crossed his mind, recalling the reason why the soldiers seemed to celebrate an event in which the main actor would be the emperor himself: It had been a year since the coronation, and Napoleon had crowned himself Emperor of France.
Everywhere now, heads emerged from tents, intrigued by the noise caused by the cheerful revelers. Understanding quickly, they joined the general enthusiasm, approaching the fire and imitating Vanhoeven's earlier actions before joining in the shouts in honor of Napoleon. If the enemy had any doubts about the locations of the different French corps, the thousands of torches shaken across the valley were enough to annihilate them!
As for Harry, surprised by this sudden activity, he wondered if his mission still had any relevance. Even when Pajol emerged from his tent to observe his men's actions with a surprised look, Harry was tempted to go directly to him and ask what his orders were now. But he didn't have to, as the Lieutenant-Colonel was already heading towards him. His head shook as he fixed his gaze on the small groups forming around them, while his apprentice stood at attention, stiff as a post.
"Bourbon, return to your tent immediately," he said in a harsh tone, almost appearing furious about what was happening.
"Well, sir," Harry replied, straightening up. "Should I ask someone to take my place?"
"Look around you; it's no longer necessary now!" he retorted gruffly. "Go to sleep, but be ready for any signal. I won't tolerate the slightest neglect of your duties, just as I won't tolerate indiscipline in the ranks."
While saying this, his gaze now turned to the baskets of alcohol bottles that some soldiers had brought from the surrounding villages and were now distributing, while the same Slav from earlier, somewhat intoxicated since her arrival and held at the waist by two men, became the main center of attention for the joyful group. Harry didn't wait for more; anticipating one of his academy director's rare angers, the ones that generally managed to restore order without resorting to force, he hurriedly ran without looking back toward the canvas enclosing the most precious thing at this moment: his bunk.
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