Read Chapter 7: The New Colonel

The order came down on a grey morning in early March, when the frost still clung to the cobblestones of Brünn and the men of the 9th Dragoons stood shivering in review formation. Moreau stood at the head of his platoon, breath fogging in the cold, watching as a carriage pulled up to the parade ground. Out stepped a man he did not recognize—tall, with a rigid spine and silver-streaked temples, wearing the dark blue uniform of a full colonel. Behind him, Lefebvre emerged from the same carriage, and Moreau’s stomach turned.

Colonel Charpentier. The name had been whispered through camp for a week, but no one knew anything of the man. Some said he’d fought in Italy. Others said he’d spent the last three years on garrison duty in the Rhineland—a paper soldier, heavy with ink and light with powder. Moreau had hoped, stupidly, that a new commander might mean a fresh eye, a fair hand. He watched Charpentier stride to the center of the square, his boots crunching in the frozen mud, and he saw the way Lefebvre lingered half a step behind, his hand resting on the pommel of his saber like a man who owned the ground.

The regiment was dismissed by early afternoon, and Moreau found himself in the stable block, brushing down his horse—a sturdy bay mare named Céleste, one of the few good things the army had given him. The straw rustled behind him, and he turned to find Renaud leaning against a post, his face drawn.

“You heard the news?” Renaud asked, keeping his voice low. “Charpentier is Lefebvre’s cousin. His mother’s sister’s son. They grew up together in the same village near Verdun.”

Moreau’s hand stopped mid-stroke. “You’re certain?”

“Quartermaster’s clerk overheard them at dinner last night. Lefebvre called him by his childhood name—‘Charles.’ They drank to their grandmother’s health.” Renaud shook his head. “Every road leads back to the same family, Étienne. You might as well try to outrun your own shadow.”

Moreau set down the brush and leaned against Céleste’s warm flank. “So this is what my army has become. A family business. Somewhere, there are men who earned their rank in blood, and they serve under cousins who earned it at a christening.”

Renaud said nothing. There was nothing to say.

That evening, Moreau was summoned to the new colonel’s quarters—a requisitioned merchant’s house with tall windows and a coal stove that made the room almost warm. Charpentier sat behind a mahogany desk, maps spread before him, a glass of wine at his elbow. He was a handsome man in a forgettable way, with a wide, pleasant face that seemed designed to reassure. When Moreau entered and saluted, Charpentier smiled.

“Sergeant-Major Moreau. I’ve heard good things about you.” The colonel gestured to a chair. “Please. Sit.”

Moreau did not sit. “I prefer to stand, sir.”

Charpentier’s smile did not waver. “As you wish.” He picked up a map and studied it for a moment. “I’ll be direct with you, Moreau. We have a problem. The villages north of here are harboring deserters. Men who abandoned their posts during the winter. They’ve been hiding in barns, stealing from supply wagons, and spreading sedition among the locals. It’s done. We’ve had enough.”

Moreau felt a cold weight settle in his chest. “A punitive raid, sir?”

“A restoration of order,” Charpentier corrected, his tone smooth as oil. “I’m taking three squadrons personally, and I want you in command of the advance guard. You know the terrain. You know these people.”

“I know the farmers, sir. They’re not traitors. They’re frightened. If we burn their villages, we’ll only drive them into the arms of the enemy.”

Charpentier’s smile thinned. “That’s a generous reading of the situation. I prefer to think of it as a message. A clear one.” He set down his wine glass and leaned forward. “You have a reputation, Moreau. A good one. Men follow you. I want that. I’m offering you a chance to be part of something—to prove that your name can carry more than a riding school’s praise.”

The words were a blade wrapped in velvet. Moreau understood. This was Lefebvre’s doing—a test, a trap, or both. If he refused the order, Charpentier would have him for insubordination. If he accepted and the raid went badly, they would blame him. If he accepted and the raid went well, Charpentier—or Lefebvre—would take the credit. Every path led to the same swamp.

“I’ll do my duty, sir,” Moreau said, his voice flat. “I always do.”

Charpentier nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Good. We ride at dawn. Dismissed.”

Moreau turned to leave, but the colonel’s voice stopped him at the door.

“One more thing, Sergeant-Major. I’ve heard you have a habit of asking questions. Old questions. About men who are no longer with us.” Charpentier’s tone had lost its warmth. “I’d advise you to keep your mind on the present. The past is a grave, and digging in it only gets your hands dirty.”

Moreau met his gaze. “I’ve never minded dirty hands, sir.”

He left before Charpentier could reply.

The raid began before first light. Moreau rode at the head of the advance guard, forty horsemen behind him, their sabers sheathed but their hands tight on the reins. The village was called Schandorf—a settlement of perhaps sixty houses, crouched at the base of a low hill, surrounded by fields that had not yet been planted. Smoke rose from chimneys. Dogs barked. Women crossed the square with baskets of bread, and children stopped to stare at the column of blue-coated soldiers winding down the road.

Moreau called a halt at the edge of the village. He saw no armed men—no sign of deserters. Only farmers and their families, going about their morning work. He turned to Lieutenant Blanchard, a young officer newly assigned to the regiment, whose face was pale but determined.

“I want a sweep of the houses on the eastern edge,” Moreau said. “No one is to be harmed unless they raise a weapon. Understand?”

Blanchard nodded and rode off with a dozen men. Moreau waited, watching the village, feeling the weight of the order pressing down on him. This was not war. This was punishment, and punishment had a way of creating its own enemies.

A shout came from the eastern edge of the village. A shot. Moreau spurred Céleste forward, racing past the houses, and found Blanchard’s men gathered at a barn at the end of a narrow lane. The door was open, and two soldiers were dragging a man into the daylight—gaunt, bearded, wearing a faded cavalry jacket that had been stripped of its insignia. Behind him, another man lay motionless in the straw, a dark stain spreading across his chest.

Blanchard’s face was flushed. “He fired on us. We had no choice.”

Moreau dismounted and walked to the kneeling deserter. The man looked up at him, eyes hollow with exhaustion, and spat.

“You fight for them?” the deserter said, his voice cracked. “For the men who sold us out?”

Moreau crouched down. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Roland. Seventh Hussars.” He laughed bitterly. “We were at Eylau. You know what happened there? You know how many of us died? We did. And we don’t even count.”

Moreau’s heart beat faster. He glanced at Blanchard. “Care for the dead man. See to the village elder. Tell him we’re not here for his people.”

Blanchard hesitated, then obeyed. Moreau helped Roland to his feet and led him aside, out of earshot of the others.

“You were at Eylau,” Moreau said, low. “Under General Lefebvre.”

Roland’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “You know that name.”

“I know it well. Tell me what you saw.”

The deserter was silent for a long moment. Then he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded paper, creased and sweat-stained. “I was in the supply depot at Friedland before the battle. I saw papers. I saw what they did.” He thrust the paper into Moreau’s hand. “Take it. Maybe you can do something with it. It’s already gotten two men killed.”

Moreau unfolded the paper. It was a receipt, dated two months before Eylau, signed by a quartermaster named Vasseur. It recorded the sale of regimental supplies—horseshoes, flour, ammunition, blankets—to a civilian buyer in Königsberg. The signature on the buyer’s line was illegible, but the initial was clear: a single ornate L.

“L,” Moreau murmured.

“Lefebvre,” Roland said. “He sold our supplies while we starved in the snow. And when we survived, he wrote us out of the rolls so no one would ask why we were so short.”

Moreau folded the paper and slipped it inside his coat, next to the diary. “You’re coming with me,” he said. “I’ll get you out of this.”

Roland shook his head. “There’s no out of this. But you—you’re the first man who looked at me like I mattered.” He closed his eyes. “Don’t waste it.”

In the distance, Moreau heard the sound of galloping hooves. He turned and saw Charpentier’s squadron sweeping down the far side of the village, sabers drawn.

“God help us all,” Moreau whispered.