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Great Writing - Home > Stories > THE LAST DAYS OF BARON DE RULLECOURT
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| THE LAST DAYS OF BARON DE RULLECOURT | |
| By leesio | ||||
| 05 March 2010 | ||||
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A fictionalised short story of three thousand words about the attempt of a French privateer to take the island of Jersey from British rule. I. Under the darkness of the moonless night, my men rolled down to the shore in their fives and tens, the winter snap warmed by their murderous blood. It had taken us ten long days and nights to navigate the short thirty mile journey across rough seas and jagged rocks. To think we went unnoticed even by the barest of glances was reward for our persistence. Our prey had slumbered by their own merriness and Christmas cheer while their protectors, all drunken bastards, would pay dearly for their neglect. Against perilous adversity that only nature could provide, my soldiers of fortune and disgrace, deserters of the King of France, mercenaries and privateers, landed and camped right under our enemy’s nose. Their tattered blue tunics blended into the deep night sky while the screaming corpses of fallen men, victims of the cruel ocean, fought against the tide. I would curse the weather many times over as I could fate but I was determined to make my own destiny. The spoils of war were a beacon on the horizon. I had led two thousand from Granville with express permission for the coup from my honourable benefactor in Luxembourg. A duke that deserved his title not stolen or false as the one Jersey swore allegiance to. By my side and sword stood a motley crew of low-life braggarts and sovereignty who salivated for blood and riches. The Prince of India, exiled from his British captors, was most ambitious for petit revenge while the Emir of Morocco joined seeking rapacious lust and thirty more wives. Others sought nothing but salacious cruelty and redemption. They had nothing else to aspire to in their wretched lives. We had set sail on 27th December 1780, guided by the perfidious Pierre Journeaux, a local man and a fugitive from the hangman’s rope, having been accused of murder. No sooner had we embarked, the unforgiving weather crashed against our hopes, strong winds repelling our advances. My pilot whined like a pitiful dog that further encroachment would ensure our doom. I dismissed him without utterance. This man would pay for his insolence later and the Sirens would soon call out his name (M. Giles Perie for anyone who cares). I could not tolerate such weakness. We continued to fight Neptune’s army for three long days without success, each storm a trident through the bowels of our advance. Once the rocks at Les Iles Chausey were reached, ten miles northeast from where we launched, we took chance to catch our breath. Days passed without event as we clung to the craggy archipelago. The harsh elements tore across our weakened bodies, our skin ripped like tissue. I seethed. The opportunity to advance my conquest was being blown and smashed away. I was not prepared to succumb to such jeopardy nor let my poor men, many of brittle temperament, diminish their perseverance. If I did, then I risked their morale sinking with the vessels that carried them here. Provisions sent from St Malo and Concale had continually failed to reach us. The fog that rolled over the rocky outpost conspired with the wind to drag and destroy our ships one by one. Many perished into the cold waters. Our mission bordered on humiliation and disaster without even an exchange of fire. The Gods showed no signs of relent. As I sat on the steps of the fort at Chausey I took confidence in the officers who fawned for the good of my spirit. Rations were low, drinking water scarce, many men were starving. They knew the situation was despairing and given the undisciplined and mutinous nature of my company it was important they preserved an indomitable will as mine. Despite sullen thoughts seeping through my mind, I appreciated the attempts of these good men and I felt compelled to declare to all before me: “Loyal servants of the Good King Louis XVI, your courage with which you accept your responsibility amongst such difficulties is an example to us all, so forceful and so heartening that the ranks can put aside their miseries for the duty of King and Country. However rough this war will be, they will never suffer as much as they are suffering now”. And as my officers basked in these comforting and encouraging words a young mercenary waltzed by with the mortal couplet “fucking weather”, to which I unsheathed my sabre and cut off his impertinent head. Time was an equal foe and less of it available. It was Twelfth Night and all Englishmen would be merry one last time. I had no choices left but many decisions to make. I have pride though I am told it is a sin. I believe in the divine, though I am not a pious man. And so I prayed and asked for forgiveness and blessing for the journey we took in God’s name and of the King. I knew the English dared not ask. I recognised that trial in adversity can lead to the path of righteousness and I looked up to the heavens and sought salvation. I would not return to Normandy. I would conquer Jersey or die trying, be it on sea or land. Providence was placed in my hands alone but I gave thanks and praise when at last we felt the calm of Salacia’s soft breath. “Man never found the deities so kindly” Rabelais once said “as to assure him that he’d live tomorrow”. I was convinced and we finally set off to discover our true fate. II. Our small armada disembarked at Le Rocque, decimated to less than half. Much of our artillery and munitions continued to float around in uncertainty but I was hasty to move on. Through the dead of night I led the remaining troops to dry land to camp under the starless cover and regroup. Lacking in bodies and arms, many may have conceded defeat and beat a hasty retreat, cursing the luck they had been dealt. But luck can be played both ways and I felt a surge of confidence rise in my chest. The winds had changed and our landing had met without observation. Before dawn we were already marching on the road to St Helier with a taste for victory. As small as my company had now become we were no less enthusiastic in our task as our procession met without challenge along deserted paths. The English army still slept by their empty bottles of grog, while many inhabitants were locked safely in their homes oblivious to our incursion. Those that did bare us witness looked on in bemusement. This I did not take kindly to and I sanctioned an exhibition of our intentions. The force of an icy bayonet through the heart can be a most persuasive action. Many of my men took delight in the more nefarious rewards that war could bring. My eye turned away when they took their share of loot, expended aggression or took fondly to the local women. I noted that many a fair Jersey wench were most volunteering for abduction, their charms displayed for my soldier’s pleasure. We soon reached the market place without alarm or gunshot. It was a hubbub of much activity so early in the day and the focal point to arrest our objective. My soldiers gave the cry “Vive le Roi et Luxembourg” repeatedly from the bottom of their gut. It would have sent a shiver down the most partisan of spines. But these local folk were either fools or knew not what to make of the spectacle for they carried on their daily ways with the merest of shrugs. Such apathy provoked my men to display random acts of petulance. My impatience grew and under the stony gaze of their King George II I made my address on the steps of the adjacent courthouse: “Good people of Jersey, I come in the name of King Louis XVI of France and the Chevalier of Luxembourg. Comply and you we able to live your lives in peace or otherwise suffer the consequences. My men seek quench for their thirst. I will ensure that it is not your blood they will toast”. I beckoned over an elderly coward, of supposed rank and duty, who was dressed in nightcap and slippers. He came forth under close supervision all defiant and stoical in his poise. The sight of a glimmering sabre beneath the nose soon had him whimpering pathetically. I explained to him that the audience of the Governor of Jersey, Major Corbet, was of vital and urgent importance. As this proved hard for him to initially understand, a hard butt of a musket to his senescent face was enlightening. And if that was not enough a reminder of our seriousness then the execution of a local sentry quickly persuaded him. Bound by the wrists and ankles the old man led a patrol to the Governors House and I waited anxiously. Twenty minutes passed and the patrol returned with another hostage but not the one I was after. “His wife” my soldier said to me and presented the sorry wretch in front of me. I felt my blood boil but I had to contain some diplomacy. “Where is your husband?” asked I. “In the country with his officers and troops” replied she and her cheek met kindly with a hard wrap of the knuckles. I grabbed her hair and shouted to the crowd “If the Governor does not present himself to me in ten minutes time, be sure that his wife will not be here either”. Of course Corbet came to his senses and appeared before me in good time. I had heard he was well-meaning and had his people’s best interests at heart. He was a portly old soul, barely dressed for such a momentous occasion, his breeches undone for all to see. What an embarrassment this man is I thought, a bumbling oaf he was for sure, despite an apparent kind nature. My men immediately seized him but I wished the Major at ease. He deserved my respect at the very least. “Major Corbet” began I “It is indeed an honour”.“Please release my wife” said he, quite vaguely, “and the officer”.“It is very simple Major Corbet, I am sure you will agree. You grant me your island and everyone is free. You will hand over all fortifications, arms and ammunition and your people will continue to enjoy their property, franchise, liberty and religion”. I then presented the Governor with document and pen as if it were served on a silver platter. Corbet was quiet but I sensed his rejection. The pathetic fool had not reasoned for my anger. “I insist, dear sir, I insist right now. If you do not I will not be held accountable for what my men might do”. At this point my Lieutenant, Ganne by name and a brute of a man, unleashed his sword and threatened to bring it down such was his fury. I turned to the Emir and saw fire in his eyes and I felt Corbet cower in the glow. He feared the berber’s blackened barbarous scowl as many people I imagine would, so I lowered my tone for one last chance to be civil. “Major, all resistance is useless I think you ought to know. I bring four thousand men and a thousand more wait by the shore. Another ten will arrive by noon and it will be quite impossible for your men to continue the fight. Sign the terms or you can stand with me and watch St Helier blaze through the night”. I could see Corbet’s perplexity break down in front of me and I presented more tales for his gullible fat head to consume. He took the papers for his surrender and signed them with little further reluctance. Victory it seemed had been sealed and the island was now mine without much quarrel. Buoyed by this achievement, I made arrangements for celebration that evening. I assured the good people of Jersey that they would come to no further harm in return for their deference. This was to the frustration of the soldiers who had come to ransack and pillage but I required obeisance to quell any notions of vengeance. Just to be sure we all knew where we stood and to show my intentions were fair, I shot a thief within my own ranks through his empty head. Duly satisfied I took a chance for a stroll around the small cobbled streets and reflect in my glory. That I felt so assured so soon would prove to be my folly. III. A delightful young rose of pale complexion had caught my eye and I took a chance to woo her attention with posies I picked, tied with red ribbons. She blushed at first but she was obviously flattered. Who wouldn’t be in front of a man of such standing and dignity, and handsome to boot? I invited her to dine with me that evening and she agreed through her pretty trembling lips. All was well it seemed until my tranquillity was disturbed by the news of an officer who kept guard at the nearby belfry tower. I returned to the courthouse to confront the treacherous Corbet enveloped in rage. “My men see your troops gathering on the hill. They are supposed to lay down their arms. Your mendacity will prove your undoing M. Corbet I assure you. We will strike you down as hard as the granite I stand upon and show no mercy”. The coward quivered and I sent him to call for an immediate submission. Honourable men they all turned out to be and stubbornly dismissed the terms of his surrender. I believed Corbet tried for he was a craven fool but the English were bolder than I thought and I was now braced for the battle ahead. We tried to take their prize. An islet castle named after their virgin queen where the Belgian hermit monk once lived and became the island town’s main patron. Their cannon kept us at bay as did their ignorance for the romantic tongue. They refused to surrender once more and the tide beat our retreat back to the market square. Again, I would curse what nature would bring. Our only chance of support had turned back to France and now our small numbers were resigned to square up against the might of the English militia which was at least five to our one. We returned back to the market square and hastily set the barricades to prepare for the inevitable reprisals. I realised I had come here not to be master but to die. I had been careless by not seizing various vantage points when we first took the town and we were fired upon from up high on Mont de la Ville. I watched as my men fell like skittles pounded repeatedly by the enemy’s batteries of howitzers. The noise was deafening and relentless and under a carpet of smoke many of my men laid dead or bloodied, limbs badly severed. I heard the faintest of wailing drowned out by the firing, the whole milieu a place of confusion. We were soon being ambushed from angles left and right, volley’s of gunshot hailing from musket and cannon like a game of carombole. My men put up a fight and tried to repel with shots of their own but we were besieged and trapped in the storm. I whipped out my sabre and led one last cry “vive le Roi et Luxembourg”. Despite being blessed with regal honour my heart thumped the same as the common soldier. I barked my orders to withstand the assault and found myself stood toe to toe with my greatest foe, a general of great distinction. He was a young man of obvious ambition and high rank, cavalier in his attack, gallant and brave, as he led his regiment to our slaughter. As handsome as I, and with graceful posture, he took our army to the brink of surrender. I took out my pistol and fired in his direction. I missed this time but tried again. I took aim and shot through his courageous heart. I watched the hero fall in prolonged motion waiting for the final curtain call but the phantasmagoria of glorious scarlet and blue continued in its theatrical scene. The English red continued the charge, my men scattered and sundered, as the crackles overhead blazed a grey and orange hue. Women and children still scampered for safety and took shelter from the falling debris. A rhythmic rattle followed the beat of the drum and a call of the bugle brought resolution. The Union flag was hoisted and our victory was plundered. I fell from the set of the battle and gazed on at its spectacle. A taste of lead filled the pit of my stomach, the noise became silent, my vision was blurred and I felt numb. Bathing in my own blood at the steps outside the courthouse door, a silhouette of a man as black as the night stood before me. He was naked but for chains on his ankles and a cloth around the loins. I could see the sorrow in his face, a solitary tear rolling from his eye. A bright glare from behind him cast his shadow like the sun and raised my soul to the sky. A revolution was upon us and a new world order. I died in the old, a homeless buccaneer, without breath to pour in another man’s arms. I came to conquer. I came for triumph. I left this earth with neither. Vive le Roi et Luxembourg And long live the glory Remember you will die For someone else’s story Remember you will die Memento mori.
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