use, I thought. “You mean he can’t hear?”
“Temporarily, the doctors say. Meanwhile, he shouts because he thinks we can’t hear him.” Duhèsme laughed again, an officer of rare good humor. His face was weathered from coastal duty, pockmarked from some earlier disease, and handsome in the lean way of a hound. “His enthusiasm is always getting him into trouble. He’s fallen out of boats and had to swim for his hat, and been thrown by his horse while crossing the river. But his frenzy produces respect. He’s caught sentries napping. He also came upon one soldier they forgot to relieve and took his place on a blustery night, saving the man from freezing. Or so the story goes. Bonaparte is as much legend as fact anymore. What do they think of him in America?”
“The hope was that he’d sustain a democratic republic.”
“Copy the chaos of your United States? I think not.”
“Then what was your revolution for?”
“Liberty. But people in France are tired of freedom. It’s when people can vote that they realize how catastrophic and stupid are the opinions of their neighbors. Better to have a Bonaparte in charge whom you can never remove, and always blame.” He laughed again.
There was a thunder of hooves behind. The general jerked me off the track, and a captain of the Hussars rode past, whooping drunkenly and holding a champagne bottle. Duhèsme gave him a wry salute.
“Your officers gallop intoxicated?”
“It’s his initiation after a promotion. To confirm his new rank, the cavalryman is given three horses and has three hours to gallop a twenty-mile course, all while drinking three bottles of champagne and rutting three whores. The order with which he accomplishes these tasks is entirely up to him.”
“And they accomplish it?” Even I was astounded, and a bit envious.
He winked. “We’re a highly trained army. Are you a military man, Gage?”
“Not by profession. Armies seem to scoop me up.”
“You’ve seen action in the Orient and the Americas, I understand, and by reputation are quite a shooter.”
“I learned on the American frontier but am out of practice.”
“Let’s see you practice now.” We reached a camp firing range set against a dune. Duhèsme placed the plate a hundred paces away. “Show me what your pretty gun is capable of.”
I loaded the Jaeger. Unlike a soldier’s musket ball, a rifle bullet is tightly squeezed in the barrel so it can grip the grooving and spin for accuracy. That means ramrodding takes care, strength, and time. I spent a full minute inserting powder cartridge, ball, wadding, and primer.
“My God, the battle would be over by now,” Duhèsme judged, looking at his pocket watch. “This is how you won the American wars?”
“For speed, use a musket. You can almost drop the bullet in. But to actually hit anything, use a rifle.” I primed the pan, cocked, aimed slowly, and squeezed the trigger. There was a bang, kick, and a puff of powder smoke. Through its haze, the distant tin plate twitched. I felt satisfied. I was rusty but could still shoot.
The general snapped open his telescope. “Just centimeters off the center. Impressive, American. Try again.”
I shot five more times. Every bullet pierced the plate. Then Duhèsme followed, hitting three of four shots.
“Impressive, Frenchman.”
“It’s the gun. The inaccuracy of firearms is the intriguing dilemma of the battlefield. We’ve run tests with our infantry firing at targets the size of horses. With a musket, just half struck the target at a hundred yards. At three hundred, the accuracy dropped to one hit in four. Charging cavalry can gallop that distance in half a minute.”
“Meaning your soldiers get off just one or two volleys.”
“And that’s on a firing range. Put peasant boys on a smoky and hellish battlefield, men bleeding and horses screaming, guns going off in their ears, and we’re fortunate to get them to point their muskets in the enemy’s direction. It took more than four hundred shots at Marengo to produce each Austrian casualty.”
“You might as well wait for them to keel over from consumption.”
“Our soldiers stagger from sixty-five pounds of gun and kit. You need bright uniforms to tell friend from foe in the murk of powder smoke. Drums and bugles because no one can hear their officers. And should the rank be one deep, two, or three? It’s not uncommon for the third rank to shoot the ears off those in the first.”
“The British stand two deep, I’m told.” This was no secret.
“All those men must be fed. A cannon requires ammunition and gunners, and