Toulon 1815
Toulon 1815
Rating: gen
I do not own the characters featured here. They belong to Patrick O'Brian, Victor Hugo and Schönberg/Boublil
Spoilers: PO’B's Post Captain and the 2012 movie version of Schönberg/Boublil’s Les Miserables
All credit for beta goes to Ferox, credit for the correct sentry to SharpieSpoilers
Length: approx. 1200
Summary: The military commander at Toulon harbour sees a stranger and is reminded of a friend
*****
The commandant militaire of Toulon harbour signed another death warrant and closed the file. It had to be done if order was to be maintained, but this part of his duty weighed heavily upon him, and to divert his mind he went to the large window overlooking the port. Down below, he could see bagnards heaving and towing a ship into one of the dry-docks. She was a 74, just like his dear Desaix. He missed Desaix, he missed harassing and beating the enemy on the oceans. Most of all, though, he missed the plain, blue-water sailing. Well, the regime had thought he could serve his country better in his capacity at Toulon. Desaix, meanwhile, under a different captain, had sunk with all hands near Saint-Domingue.
Françoise, his wife of eleven years, had never understood why he would have preferred the dangers of war at sea to the security of his post as military commander at Toulon. She had been even more pleased when he had been made Chevalier de l’orde de Saint-Louis last year. He had not told her that he would have gladly traded that honour for the command of another ship like Desaix.
But it had not been his to decide, and he would continue to do his duty, even after ten years, and in the knowledge that they would retire him at the end of the month. Françoise had not viewed the retirement as any stain on her husband’s honour, and was already making plans to visit family and friends. What did women know of the lure of the sea?
It was December, and he watched snowflakes dance in the air, driven by a harsh wind across the square in front of his office. Such beauty next to such misery! He shook his head and turned to the door.
‘Jeannot, eh Jeannot, bring my coat!’ He had decided that a brisk walk in the cold bracing air was just what he needed to rid him of his melancholy thoughts and to clear the cobwebs from his mind. ‘Crétin, I said, bring my coat!’ he bellowed.
‘J’arrive, j’arrive.’
Christy-Pallière did not react to Jeannot’s reproachful looks, merely letting himself be helped into the great-coat and reaching for his hat, scarf and gloves. ‘I will be out for a while. I will assure myself that those convicts, the vile dogs, do not damage the ship unnecessarily while they tow her into dry-dock.’
‘You will catch your death of cold, having had nothing but coffee since this morning. Supper will be on the table in a few minutes, all fresh and hot: a simple langouste in court-bouillon, followed by a gigot en croute. I have also put aside some cheese and apples with your coffee, since you did not want…’ The commandant was already out the door and Jeannot spoke to the air in front of him. He was not best pleased, since he, too, had been looking forward to a meal near the fire in the kitchen, all snug and cosy, while in the staircase and the outer rooms there was always a cold draught. The food would be chilled by the time he had toiled upstairs from the kitchen to his master’s office and back. The order to keep the meal warm drifted from the ante-room. He heard his master thundering down the stairs and the clash of the outside sentry presenting arms. Then the door clicked shut.
Christy-Pallière leaned into the snow, one hand firmly at his hat to keep it from vanishing into the gale. He squinted to see where he was going. Not only had the wind picked up, driving the snow across the square, but patches of ice had formed on the frozen ground, so that he had slipped a couple of times and very nearly been brought to his knees. Minute icicles hit his face. They were like sharp cold needles on his skin, giving him the illusion of being on Desaix’ deck out in a freezing storm. He stopped, drew himself up to full height, and closed his eyes to gather the feeling close and keep it for a few more precious moments.
Alas, it was not to be. He continued on his way to the dry-dock, where he arrived several minutes later. Rows and rows of bagnards were up to their thighs in the freezing water, pulling and heaving at the ropes attached to the ship. Christy-Pallière felt a pang of pity for those unlucky devils, but only briefly. He did not know what they had done, neither did he care: they had surely robbed and murdered people, broken into houses, gone around thieving and cheating. No, they did not deserve his pity. If they had behaved like good citoyens, none of them would have been here.
He was all the less interested in the ragged convicts, because the guard - uncommon tall, legs apart, ramrod straight, hands behind his back - reminded him of someone. The man turned, and Christy-Pallière caught a glimpse of the face, the shining eyes, the rigid set of the jaw. Without the beard, the physical resemblance would have been uncanny.
It could not be. Surely his English friend, such an honourable capitaine-de-vaissau, would not stoop to intelligence? Christy-Pallière’s English relatives had provided him with news about his poor friend’s trial, and they had been certain that Aubrey had been wrongly accused of meddling with the stock exchange, completely innocent of the crime for which he had been struck off the captains’ list. Christy-Pallière was convinced that Jacques had enemies in high places, only too willing to fabricate the lies that had brought about his fall from grace.
Against his better judgement, the commandant quickly scanned the area for someone small, downright meagre, in black clothes, but saw nobody to fit that description. He recalled an incident during the Peace of Amiens, when Maturin, Aubrey’s particular friend and a physician of great knowledge, had very nearly been accused of espionage. How Aubrey had laughed at so absurd a notion! Christy-Pallière chuckled, but his face grew grave again when he heard ‘24601’ shouted over the wind’s howling. The guard had called one of the prisoners; obviously he knew how to keep the bagnards in line.
There was movement next to the commandant. His servant had braved the weather and come to remind him of the cooling supper.
‘Jeannot, would you know the guard’s name?’
‘He is new, and I heard he is hard, though not vicious.’
‘His name, Jeannot!’
‘For the life of me, I cannot remember.’
With a final glance at the lovely ship lying on her side like a beached whale, Christy-Pallière turned and strode towards the warmth of his office and the hopefully still warm meal.
His servant could hardly keep up with him, calling out as he did so, ‘Javert, the man’s name is Javert.’
The commandant nodded. ‘Come now, you villain, do not keep me waiting with the meal, or I might find you a spot amongst the convicts.’ He did not sound convincing even to himself. With Jeannot hurrying ahead of him, he strode off towards his supper.
Notes:
The RL Jean-Anne Christy de la Pallière was Commandant militaire (military commander) at Toulon harbour between 1805 and 31st December 1815, when he was retired. He was made Chevalier de l’orde de Saint-Louis on July 5th 1814. In 1804 he had married Françoise Kerléro de Rosbo.
Desaix was shipwrecked in January 1802 at Saint-Domingue
The beginning of Les Miserables is set in 1815