City of IF

[D-Lotus]

This is a storygame: You read, you suggest and you vote.

Story so far: We are currently in Mr. Burnwick's story, about how his wife died in a french raid in Italy, and he decides to go for revenge. His intent is to kill the man who caused everything to go wrong, Napoleon Bonaparte.



Chapter 6: Napoleon

I searched my house. There were obvious signs of a struggle; strewn chairs and overturned tables. My safe was gone, although all I ever kept in it were my writings. I walked slowly into my room, stepping over the debris. The pattern of destruction repeated itself, but I ignored it and made my way to the big wooden wardrobe I had bought in France, made from pine. The drawers had been pulled out and scattered on the floor. I placed my hands on the edges of the smooth wood and pulled. The wardrobe made a grating sound and moved. I reached out behind the wardrobe and grabbed the charged musket I had been looking for. Grimly, I held it firm in my hands and inspected it. It seemed in perfect state.

I turned around and started making my way out, when I noticed my wife’s diary placed upon the torn bed. It was bright red, and would have been the first thing any man would notice upon entering the room, unless he was intent on ignoring everything around him, as I had been intent on. The diary was open, with the cover facing upwards. I felt my eyes swell with tears, but I managed to suppress them. I reached over and lifted the book from the bed. There was a fresh entry on the page that the diary had been left opened in. I closed the book quickly and bit down on my lip. I couldn’t break the bond of trust that had united us by reading her private diary, not even after her death. It probably only contained petty gossip, or lists of her daily chores, but I couldn’t allow myself to read it. Instead, I placed it in an inner pocket of my coat, at about my chest level, where I wouldn’t lose it. I grimaced in pain as I glanced back at that room for the last time.

_________________________________________


I walked back to town. As I mentioned before, I’m not very good at describing details, but I’ll tell you this much about that town: It was a small port town on the Mediterranean, placed under a plateau, but growing quickly economically. There were small and big houses running along the cobbled main street, spaced out and mostly new, and an inn for travelers and sailors. The harbor was small, but enough to accommodate three large ships, and the roar of the sea, anointed with the cries of the seagulls, gave the town its tranquil mood.

That day, as I walked down the dirt path leading to the small town, I could discern the rubble of one or two burned down houses, and the collapsed roof of another. The crop fields, which represented the town’s second most important food source after fish, resembled charred leather. As I approached the first houses, I noticed there were few men. There were women and children in the streets, recovering already from the great disasters, and some men rebuilding, but otherwise, I saw no males. I made my way to the inn, and stepped in through the doorless entrance. There were a number of tables and chairs missing in the establishment, but otherwise, it didn’t seem to have undergone too much damage. I went to the counter and the innkeeper attended me as I rested the musket on my seat. I asked him where all the men had gone, and he replied that they were fishing until sundown, due to the lack of another affordable food source. I also discovered that my wife’s old maids had been killed.

“You’re my first customer, other than those sailors that embarked here two weeks ago, right after the French attacked us. Nobody has enough money to buy food now, so they go out and fish instead. Luckily, there’s no shortage of boats.”

“Who are these sailors?” I asked.

“They arrived in a big cargo ship bearing the name Carl II. They’re a rough lot, but for now they haven’t run out of money, so I’m lodging them until they do. How is your mistress, anyway?”

“She died.” I answered silently.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He said, strangely surprised.

I finished my drink and asked if he had any mounts. He laughed.

“If I had any horses, they’d be in someone’s stomach by now. I do own a mule; you’ll find her tied to the tree outside.”

I frowned at the prospect, but I laid out some coins for him, which he took.

“Where are you going?” he asked curiously.

I shrugged dismissively. As I left, he shouted after me.

“The way I see it, the French don’t have a chance. Good luck!”

I smiled for the first time that day. The townspeople had been devastated, yet they were recovering. I asked myself what my intent was, and why I was carrying a musket in my hand, but the image of my wife’s grave spurred me on.

I found the mule tied to a tree behind the inn, just as the innkeeper had told me. She was chewing grass and batting flies from her ears by twitching them back and forth. I untied her and led her towards the road. She was strong and calm, but the idea of catching up to an army on a mule wasn’t very appealing. I decided to exchange her when I arrived at a new town. Once I was in the outskirts, and the windows of the houses could no longer be discerned, I swallowed my pride and mounted on the mule. I hit her on the rump with the palm of my hand, and we began our journey together.
________________________________


I estimated that the French army had approximately nine days ahead of me, and at a constant pace, I could reach them in less than a week’s time, even when traveling on a mule. I was hoping to be able to exchange the animal, but as I traveled through other towns, I found them in the same ravaged situation as my town had been. Indeed, I wondered how the innkeeper had managed to keep the mule.

Everyday, I ate two full meals and slept in lodges, villagers’ houses, or even under a tree. I advanced eastward, following Napoleon’s wake. My mule accompanied me steadily all the way. At first, when I encountered people on the road, I covered my face in shame. I wasn’t riding a donkey, but I wasn’t riding a horse either. A mule is a hybrid of a mare and a jack, a male donkey. They are a little over four feet tall, and twice as sturdy as any horse for their size. They are often stubborn creatures, although they are said to be that way only because they will not put themselves in danger. You can ride a horse until its death, but you won’t be able to do that with a mule. My mule was a loving animal, and I learned to appreciate her with time.

Mules are also known to be the greatest jumpers of all equines.

One day, as I traveled down the dirt road towards my next stop, only a few miles off, I saw a wagon approaching me quickly. The path bordered a farmers’ field, and he had set up a six foot wooden fence to mark his territory, so I couldn’t dodge to the side. As the wagon kept advancing, I noticed there seemed to be no driver present anywhere. Nervously, I stopped and stared. The horses were wild and their mouths frothed. They kept speeding directly towards me. I looked around and realized I was trapped. I froze in my spot; I couldn’t think. I simply stood still, waiting. The horses came closer, and my mule raised her ears in alert. I could see the mad look in the horses’ eyes as they ran at me, only three seconds distance away. I covered my face with my left hand while holding the reins with the other, and closed my eyes. Suddenly I felt myself being lifted into the air, and I grabbed the reins with both hands to avoid falling. I watched in fascination as my mule jumped over six feet of fence and carried me with her. I felt a rush of wind and the mule and I landed on the other side, sprawled one over another.

She had jumped six feet from a standing position while carrying a man on her back, and hadn’t even broken anything on the landing.

“I shall give thee thy name, fair maiden. Thou shall be called Elizabeth II for thou valiant act from this day henceforth.” I said from the floor, laughing.

When we had recovered, Elizabeth and I went around the fence and rode back into the road. There, I found that the wagon and horses had crashed into the other fence. When Elizabeth had jumped, it had surprised one of the mad horses, who had tripped and led the whole troop into the fence. Astonishingly, there had been passengers inside who had survived. The man was a wealthy French merchant, and the woman was his daughter. They explained that the driver had somehow driven the horses mad from mistreatment, and had then jumped off. They thanked me and Elizabeth for our kind actions in stopping the wagon; the merchant shook my hand tightly, and continued on his way.

That night, I made sure that Elizabeth was served only the best hay they had in town.
_________________________________


Two days later, I arrived in a town where I was told the French army had encamped only six miles away from my present location. In the evening sky my rage surfaced again from the recesses of my heart. I decided that I had to be calm in my procedure, so I sat down to think of a plan under the shade.

I decided to play the part of an impulsive Italian youth who felt betrayed by his country and had seized his chance to make something of himself in the great French army. Of course, my character would have no money, and therefore I would have to give away Elizabeth and hide the few coins that I had left.

I left Elizabeth to a farmer who had conserved his fields throughout the raids, under the solemn oath that she would not end up as dinner. With this, I splashed some mud on myself to make my clothes look old, and departed from the town, heading towards the French army.

I seemed cool in nature, but in my head I held murderous thoughts. As I walked down the road, clutching my musket in my hands, I thought only about blood and death. I had never killed a man in my life, but I was ready to kill the man who had caused my wife’s death.
_________________________________


The army was spread out near a creek, tents and flags of all colors billowing in the wind, and men sitting down under trees and around warm fires. The blue jackets of the Frenchmen marked their presence clearly. They milled around the camp or sat in front of their meager meals, grumbling and talking. The camp was huge; I had never seen anything like it. There were at least three hundred thousand men going about their duties. A watch spotted me just as I first glimpsed the camp and walked towards me, gun in hand. I dropped my musket and raised my arms in the air to reveal my good intentions. He lowered his gun and came closer, then spoke to me in French.

“Repetez plus lentement, s’il vous plait.” I said.

“State your name and business with the republic of France.” He said in broken Italian mixed with French.

“Francesco Tocci; I come to serve the great French army.” I lied…in broken French mixed with Italian as well.

He nodded towards the camp and picket up my musket. I started walking and the watch followed behind. When we reached the camp, he led me to a red tent where various men were talking. As I walked in the tent, the watchman spoke quickly in French. The men looked at me, not very curiously, and then one man, presumably the squad sergeant, dismissed us with his hand as he said something. The watchman led me out again and we walked through the camp. We stopped at another tent where he gave me a registering paper. I wrote down the false name I had given him previously and my age. I gave him the paper and he stuffed it in his pocket, then he motioned for me to follow him once more. He stopped to ask a bearded soldier something, and the soldier pointed in some direction. We neared a small fire with only one man crouching behind it, and the soldier called his name. He was a young man, younger than I was, and he wasn’t wearing the big blue jacket that characterized the other soldiers. The watchman spoke to the man, who in turn spoke to me in Italian.

“He says you’ll have to agree to some conditions.” He said.

I nodded, hoping I wouldn’t have to talk and give myself away by my accent. The watch continued talking, and the man translated.

“As an unofficial integrant of the army, you would need to renounce to a salary and a uniform, although you will be supplied with food and water. The same rules will apply to you as to the other soldiers, and you will obey your superiors.”

I nodded to accept. The watchman turned to me and gave me back my musket. Then he uttered some last words and left. I looked around and watched his figure fade into the distance. I cleared my throat and sat down near the fire. The man looked at me. He was definitely younger than me, and blond with gentle features, although I could not see very well in the dusk.

“He said you won’t get any rations until tomorrow. Here, have some of mine.”

“Thanks.” I said as I took the dry meat he offered.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

He appeared sympathetic, so I cast my fears to the wind and answered him. “I used to live near Genoa. You?”

“I’m from this region. My dad was half-French, so he taught me the language. Then Napoleon’s army came and killed my whole family.”

I stared at him.

“If you can’t beat them, join them.” He smiled “Anyway, my father always hit me ‘cause I didn’t want to go to the university. My mother idolized my older brother and never cared about anything concerning me. I figure the French are gonna cut through the Austrians like soft bread, which brings me safe passage as long as I stay in the rear lines.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“You’re brave.” I said.

“Not really,” he answered “I’m afraid of a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“Like getting my possessions stolen by scavengers or someone else; you know, like if I die on the battlefield.” He shuddered “I have a golden watch that I took from my father. It’s very valuable. I trust you, so I’ll show you.”

He pulled his sleeve back and displayed a shiny but battered gold watch.

I smiled inwardly at his open trust.

“We all have fears,” I said “Even if they’re irrational.”

He nodded in agreement and shuddered again. Inwardly, I shuddered as well. My greatest fear, the death of my wife, had turned to reality, and there was nothing I could do to bring her back. But I could make sure her death did not go without vengeance.
_________________________________________


We headed southeast, and I lost track of our exact location, but I knew we were near the Austrian army. In fact, we were getting spread to entrap them, since they had suffered a great loss in their last battle.

My young friend was called Mic, or that’s what he told me to call him. He was a saddened yet optimistic youth. For two weeks we marched, ate, and slept together. He became a trusty companion, and at the same time, one of the few men in the whole army I could understand. On occasions he was the un-official translator for the army. They didn’t really care if he fought in battle, as long as he translated once in a while; or so he had told me.

As for Napoleon, I only saw the man once. He was not a tall man, or one of great figure, yet he carried himself with arrogance and dressed with pomp. His strength lied not in his mirth, but in his mind. He was a dangerous man, and this much was apparent on first sight. His eyes were steely and at times he wore a sarcastic or all-knowing smile. He was also always protected and surrounded by other men. To try to get near him would be hard; to try and assassinate him would be my death, and a foolish death if I did not succeed the first time. I would have to wait for my chance.

The day before my first battle, and the day before I would use my gun for the first time, I was sitting in the twilight with my back against the fire, looking at the stars in company of Mic.

“You know,” he said as he looked at the sky “all they do is register your name somewhere.”

“Who?” I asked, confused.

“The French. I mean, you and I; we’re not part of the army. They write our names somewhere and then forget about us. They don’t even deem us worth of a uniform.”

“Hmm…”

“I lied about my name in the register. You did too, didn’t you?”

I looked at him sharply. “What makes you think that?”

“The fact that they think you’re Italian, but you’re obviously English because of your accent.”

I smiled. “I guess you know too much for your own good.”

“Are you an English spy?” he asked casually.

I decided to trust him.

“No.” I answered gravely. “I’m here to kill Napoleon.”

He chuckled. “You must be joking. The man is made of impenetrable steel at the least, if he’s not immortal. He is “The General”. The Austrians, English and Prussians can’t defeat him, yet a mere man expects to do so?”

“Many times the will of one man has overcome the might of many nations.” I retorted.

“Really? When?”

“Well…uh…I don’t recall at this moment, but I’m sure there are many examples.” I said awkwardly.

“Ah, well, if that’s so, then good luck.”

“Thanks.” I said, and then we both lapsed into silence.

“This is probably the worst compliment you’ll ever receive, but…You remind me of my mule.” I said.

He laughed merrily. “Then I guess you should know you remind me of my aunt.”

I smiled wryly. “Your aunt, eh? Well, young man, its time to go to sleep. The child devourer comes to eat children when they’re awake past their bedtime, don’t you know? Why, just yesterday I was sitting with him and he asked about you-”
He threw my blanket at me and laughed. I laughed too. It sounded so strange to hear my own laughter. I contemplated the stars as men around us held up bottles of alcohol and sung in their native language. But the fires of hate still burned inside my heart, fueled by the anger at the death of my wife. I decided to act, and I would grasp any chance I had. I was tired of waiting, and somebody would die the next day.

In fact, a lot of people would die the next day.
__________________________________

The attack occurred during the waking of the morn. The relentless night was slowly fading into day as the sun peeked out of the bowels of the earth. The call to arms sounded sharply throughout the camp. The drums rattled and shook as big drum-sticks landed heavily on them. The shouting of men increased, and by then I was looking around me in confusion.

“The Austrians.” whispered Mic in my ear. “We have about twenty minutes before they get here, the scouts detected them marching toward us. We thought they were spent, so we got split to entrap them, but it turns out they regrouped.”

I nodded and reached for my musket near the extinguished fire. I was checking it quickly when a soldier grabbed me and pointed in the direction of some soldiers who were quickly starting to dig a long pit. Then he yelled at Mic and ordered him to go somewhere else.

“Good luck!” I said as I began walking toward the digging men. A pale and worried soldier handed me a shovel and pushed me in the pit. I began the back-breaking work as I looked around for Napoleon Bonaparte, who at that moment was probably not happy, seeing as he was greatly outnumbered and outmaneuvered. I grunted with effort as I hauled dirt onto the mounting pile that would protect us later from bullets. I was still digging when soldiers began pouring into the pits. I threw my shovel to the side and took up my gun. Moments later, the first gunshots broke out. The French ranks responded with a volley, followed with another volley. I shrunk into the pits, lonely and muddied, realizing for the first time that I had never been in war.

I lost track of time from then on. I think the Austrians receded into the forest for cover, but returned into the open once again to charge the outnumbered French lines. But they held their ground, covered by the meager protection offered by the pits. Men around me were shouting and didn’t pay any attention to me. Occasionally the pits exploded with dirt when a cannon hit its mark. I cowered as men rushed out and then fell back, dead.

It must have been several hours afterwards when the determination to avenge my wife surfaced over my fear and cowardice. There were dead bodies around me as I peeked out over the packed dirt. Something had changed; the French army was not using the cover of the pit. Instead, they were rallying in the open only ten yards away from me. It seemed as if they’d received reinforcements. Then I noticed who was doing the rallying; Napoleon. He was on his splendid horse, flourishing his rapier with his men. I was so close to him, and yet nobody would suspect me if I shot at him. They would think it was the Austrians who had killed him. They probably supposed me dead anyway. I smiled cruelly, near to crying of joy. It was perfect.

During my early years, when my father had lived, he had often taken me hunting. I was not a perfect marksman, but I knew enough not to miss from ten feet. The smoke that would erupt from my gun, if noticed at all in the confusion, I could easily explain about if asked. I would allege to be shooting the Austrians.

I raised my gun to eye level and aimed. It would be easy. So easy. I watched him riding around in his pomp, and waited until he remained in a fixed position. Finally he pulled to a stop near a man, also on a horse, and in probability, one of his generals. I took careful aim. Then I pulled the trigger and the shot rang out. I cleared the smoke from the gun hurriedly to see the effects.

I had missed.

I jumped up and shouted in despair. He was still there, waving his sword in the air. The man next to him was beginning a charge. Later I would learn that the charge would signify a French victory and the loss of that man’s life, but at the moment I could only think of one thing.

I had missed.

Yet…there was still time. I could still get another shot at him. I began to turn around when suddenly a stray bullet hit me in the chest. I fainted.
__________________________________

When I woke up, the battle was over. I looked around me and contemplated the dead bodies of so many men. I got up and began walking across the battlefield, trying to remember what had happened. Suddenly I heard my name being called. I turned around and saw Mic lying on the ground some yards away from me. I hurried over to him. He was bloodied and clutching his breast with his hand.

“Mic, what happened?” I asked.

“I got hit.” He answered and coughed.

“Damn, is it a mortal wound?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said sadly “but I got them back for it. Too bad they caught us by surprise.”

I smiled as best as I could.

“Dying is so strange…” he said before he fell into a fit of coughing “I guess I’ll be joining my family…They weren’t so bad, really… I just hope I don’t go to hell…I wonder if they really do have fires for burning souls…”

He rambled on as I sat by him patiently.

“Here,” he said “I want you to have this. I don’t want this to get stolen; I’d rather give it to someone.”

He pulled back his sleeve with his bloodied hand and took off his watch. He gave it to me and I took it.

“Life wasn’t so bad, really.” He said.

“Are you scared?” I asked.

“Nah…I figure there has to be something else after life…I mean, what would be the point, if not?”

Again he started coughing uncontrollably, and I grasped his hand to help him. I felt his pulse slowing down as he kept coughing, like a diminishing drum beat.

“…bye…” he managed to choke out. Then his pulse disappeared and he dropped back, limp.

“Bye.” I said quietly.

I buried him by a grove of trees. You can consider yourself lucky, I thought as I looked around at all the dead men, at least you have a grave. And suddenly I asked myself why I wasn’t dead. I had been hit by a stray bullet in the chest, and that meant immediate death. Was I a spirit? No, it wasn’t possible. I felt my chest with my hand and found it intact. Then I remembered the diary, my wife’s diary. It had been in my coat all this time, in a pocket at chest level! I took out the diary and immediately saw a bullet encrusted deep inside the cover. It didn’t seem possible that my wife’s diary had saved my life. I began to open it, and then stopped myself. Was it alright to read the diary? What was I afraid of? And furthermore, what was I going to do after this?

I know that the decision point doesn't seem very multi dimensional, or problematic at all, but in it lies the most important thing in the whole story. I also know it was very long, so thank you for reading it, dear reader. Anyway, give me corrections, suggestions, criticism, or whatever.

[Shady Stoat]

It didn't seem long as I was reading it. Nice flow to the story, D. I liked it :)

I think this was an omen. Of course he has to read his wife's diary now. It's like she's sending him a message - one that might bring him peace, or firm his resolve for revenge. Either way, he must know!

[Key]

F5 Stoat. Read the diary.

Nice chapter, D! :D

[D-Lotus]

Thanks. I guess I should post a poll soon, since there doesn't seem much option. But what should the guy do afterwards? Pursue Napoleon?

[Ravenwing]

I can only reiterate Shady's words. I swear she reads all our minds before she posts. :cool:

Pursuing Napoleon seems to be his only purpose. He may have missed his first opportunity, but I am sure there are others. And I think his wife's words will keep him going in his revenge. It is sad though that he has lost his only friend in the army.

[Chinaren]

OKay, back now so...

He gave the donkey away!! Why didn't he sell it?? It seems to be a valuable commodity in such times!

Quote: renounce to a salary

Renouce? Agree maybe?

Nice chapter! I say...

Read the diary!!!

[D-Lotus]

OK, I guess I'll post a poll.

[Ravenwing]

Hmm. To read or not to read, that is the question. ;)

The crystal ball tells me.....Read the diary!!! :cool:

Like I said before, it would give him some incentive to continue his revenge after the loss of his friend. While this may sound contradictary, the words may be of comfort of him because they were written in his wife's handwriting.

Voted, and winning! :cool:

[D-Lotus]

:cry: :cry2: Why won't more people read my story...at least give me some info to make my story better to write stories more people will read.... :D

[Chinaren]

I will read it again if it helps D! :D

[D-Lotus]

*sob* I guess I'll start on the next chapter...maybe if I work harder, people will notice.... :(

[Ravenwing]

Just keep writing, D. People will still read. :cool:

[D-Lotus]

Thanks! :D

[ninja baloon]

I know i'm just being controversal but what the hey. I vote for not reading the diary. I don't know why but maybe something bad happens from it. Like its booby trapped and you get permenantley disfigured. People from then on would call you Elephant mans ugly brother or shout out "Look! There goes club foot in the face boy." Or the over whelming guilt of invading someones privacy would lead you to want to commit suicide as soon as you put the diary down. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm just crazy!

[ninja baloon]

Sorry if my suggestion doesn't make sense :? I've only just started reading the story and I only skimmed. I like it though so hurry up with the next chapter :D

[Ravenwing]

Well if the poll were still going on, NB, you would be only one voting for that option.

[D-Lotus]

Sorry for the hiatus, but I've been busy, and in fact absent from the site. The new chapter should come soon, I'm already 1/3 done, and I promise it will have come out before Spring Break ends. Unfortunately, I'm having a problem, because the narrator of the new story is not supposed to be very wordy, and I'm having trouble concentrating on such a simple style, especially the accent.

Anyway, mediocre or not, at least it'll have the most important plot twist in it.

Also, ninja, you may turn out to be right about the diary! ;)

[ninja baloon]

Yay! Im right about something. *throws kisses at the wild crowd, while being showered with roses and holding a very big trophy saying "Trophy of bestness"*

[Ravenwing]

*mutters* The arrogance of some minds.

Hope to see that next chapter, D. :D

[D-Lotus]

I was hoping so too, but idleness overtook me...that pool was just so temptating.

[Ravenwing]

Thats too bad, D. You got to restrain the temptation then.

[D-Lotus]

Well, I'm getting closer...almost done. I was going to make it longer, but I'm pressed for time.

[Ravenwing]

LOL. I think nearly every student is pressed for time. I have APs starting next week. And I have to write the next chapter of Glassbreaker, and my entry for SoAP4. So yeah I have such little time. Oh and tonight is closing night for one-acts, so yeah I have so little time, and so much to do.

[D-Lotus]

Its comin' tomorrow an' if not, the next, my faithful readers. ;)