Pillage

"But they're numerous. They say they can line up hundreds of thousands of soldiers."

Beaumont stood up, making his joints crack. He had survived three campaigns in Algeria, seen things these young men couldn't even imagine.

"Listen to me, all of you. Yes, the Chinese are numerous. Yes, we're going to fight far from home, in a country we know nothing about. But we have two advantages: our discipline and our weapons. The Minié rifles we carry can kill at three hundred meters. Our rifled cannons are the best in the world. And above all, we have General de Montauban. A man who has never lost a battle."

"There's always a first time," someone muttered.

"Who said that?"

Beaumont thundered.

"Who dares speak like a coward?"

Beaumont directed his attention over the tense faces, lit by the faint glows of oil lamps.

"We are not cowards. We are soldiers of the French Empire. In a few months, we'll enter History. Our names will be engraved in military annals. Our children will proudly recount that their father participated in the China campaign. Keep your head high and your rifle clean. The rest will come in its time."

A murmur of approval ran through the lower deck. Beaumont approved. But he wasn't as confident as he let appear. He had seen too much, lost too many comrades to blindly believe fine words. War was a lottery, and no one could predict who would return and who would remain there, in a foreign land, under an anonymous cross.

On the upper deck, in the general's cabin, a staff meeting was being held around a table cluttered with maps and documents. Montauban presided, flanked by Captain Delmas and Commander Favier, his artillery chief. The lamp swinging from the ceiling projected moving shadows on the concentrated faces.

"The last reports we received before departure are worrying," Favier explained. "The Chinese have reinforced the Dagu forts. They've installed new cannons, dug trenches, laid obstacles in the river."

Montauban studied the map attentively. His fingers established imaginary markers, calculated distances, evaluated firing angles.

"If we attack head-on as the English did, we'll suffer the same losses. We must find another landing point. Further north, perhaps. Go around these defenses."

"Mon général," the officer intervened, "the English will never agree. Lord Elgin wants to wash away last year's affront. He'll want to take these forts by force."

"He'll do so without us. I won't sacrifice my men to satisfy an English lord's conceit."

The gazes of Favier and the captain crossed. Both were aware that this position would put Montauban at odds with the British.

"We'll have to be diplomatic, mon général. We need the English. Their warships, their naval artillery, their colonial troops who know the terrain."

"I'll be diplomatic. But I won't be suicidal. We'll land at Peh-Tang, north of the forts. We'll take the defenses from behind. The only sensible strategy."

He leaned over the map, following with his finger the tracing of the coast.

"Peh-Tang is about twenty kilometers to the north. We'll have to march through hostile territory, without knowing what we'll find. The Chinese might be waiting for us there too. They can't be everywhere. And even if they're waiting for us, we'll have the advantage of mobility. Once on land, we can maneuver, choose our terrain."

The discussion continued for over an hour, examining every detail, every contingency. Montauban asked precise questions, demanded clear answers. His rigor made him a formidable strategist. He left nothing to chance, anticipated problems before they arose.

When the meeting ended and Favier had left, Delmas remained alone with the general. He hesitated to ask the question that tormented him.

"Mon général, may I speak to you in confidence?"

Montauban looked up from the map he continued to study.

"I'm listening, Captain."

"I'm thinking back to my visit to your wife before our departure. She said something to me that haunts me. She asked me if I believed our mission was only military."

The general straightened up.

"And what did you answer her?"

"That I believed you would do your duty with honor. But she saw something I didn't want to see. This expedition… it's not only a military operation, is it?"

Montauban went to the porthole and contemplated the black ocean extending beneath the moon. The waves sparkled with silver in the night. Somewhere, very far away, China awaited them with its mysteries and dangers.

"Wars have several faces, my friend. The official face, that of treaties and strategic objectives. And then there's the other face, the one nobody wants to see, but that everyone knows. Booty, pillage, riches that change hands."

"But you told your generals…"

"I said what a commander must say to maintain discipline. But I'm not naive. Baron Gros spoke with the Empress before our departure. She made him understand that she expected certain things from the expedition. Art objects, testimonies of this distant civilization."

The captain felt a chill creep into his veins. The idealism that inhabited him collided with the reality of power.

"Will we go seize this place? The Yuen-Ming-Yuen everyone talks about so much?"

"We'll do what circumstances demand. If war leads us to this palace, if the Chinese emperor refuses to negotiate, if his troops attack us… then yes, we'll take what can be taken. But we'll do it in an orderly, controlled manner. Not like barbarians, but as representatives of a civilized nation."

"And you think we can pillage in a civilized manner?"

The question was direct, even insolent. Montauban turned around, and in his pupils shone a gleam he had never seen before.

"You are young, Captain. You have illusions about the nature of war. You believe there's a clean way to fight, that military honor can preserve our soul from the darkness of combat. I envy you. I had these illusions too, years ago, before Algeria. Before having seen what men become when they're afraid, when they're hungry, when they've seen their comrades die."

"But you're different, mon général. You're a man of principles."

"Principles are like this ship's sails. They move us forward when the wind is favorable. But when the storm arrives, it's the Emperor's orders that count. And the Emperor wants a complete victory. He wants China to open to French trade, for our missionaries to be able to circulate freely. He also wants to show England that France is its equal. All this has a price."

The ship pitched, producing the familiar creaking of working wood. Somewhere in the lower decks, a harmonica played a tune that spoke of distant homes and lost loves.

"I'm not sure I can accept that."

"You don't have to accept, Captain. You must obey. The only virtue asked of a soldier. However, I promise you one thing: I'll do everything in my power to ensure we remain men of honor."

He left the cabin. On deck, he breathed the salty night air. Above him, the stars shone with an intensity he had never seen in Paris. Unknown constellations took shape in the sky.

Louise de Montauban's words resonated in his head. She had been right. This expedition was not what it claimed to be. Beneath the noble diplomatic objectives hid darker ambitions, less avowable desires. And he, Armand Delmas, captain full of ideals, was going to be complicit in something he deeply disapproved of.

The weeks passed with exhausting slowness. The ship progressed southward, hugging the African coasts, crossing waters sometimes calm, sometimes agitated. The soldiers gradually got used to maritime life, their faces took on tanned hues, their bodies adapted to the constant rolling.

One morning, as the sun rose in an explosion of orange colors, the lookout cried from his crow's nest.

"Land! Land to starboard!"

All gazes turned toward the horizon. A dark mass took shape in the morning mist. The Cape of Good Hope. The end of the known world for many of these men who had never left France.

Montauban stood on the poop deck, observing the approach of the African land. Beside him, General Jamin, who commanded another transport of the flotilla and had transferred to the ship Impératrice Eugénie for a consultation, contemplated the spectacle with an indecipherable expression.

"We're halfway there. Just two more months and we'll be in China."

"If all goes well. The Indian Ocean is unpredictable. And we don't know what we'll find in Hong Kong. The latest news dates from several weeks ago."

"Do you think the English are there?"

"Grant was supposed to leave at the same time as us. With a bit of luck, we'll arrive together. That will facilitate coordination."

Jamin turned toward his commander. A pragmatic man, little inclined to soul-searching, but troubled from the beginning of the crossing.

"Montauban, have you thought about what will happen if we have to march on Beijing? If we have to enter this forbidden city the missionaries speak of?"

"I think about it every day."

"And?"

"And I don't know. It's the first time in my career I'm going to war without having a clear idea of the outcome. Algeria was different. We knew what we were confronting. Nomadic tribes, courageous, but disorganized. Here… we're going to strike an empire thousands of years old. An empire that has survived more conquerors than we can count."

"You doubt?"

"I'm thinking. It's not the same thing."

A sailor passed near them pulling on a rope, humming a tune from his native Brittany.

"Do the men have good morale?"

"They're bored. Good sign. Men who are bored aren't afraid. But we'll have to keep them busy once on land. After three months at sea, they'll want action."

"They'll get action soon enough. I prefer soldiers who are bored to soldiers too eager to fight. The latter make mistakes."

The conversation drifted to tactical questions, to the organization of brigades, to ammunition and provisions needs. But both shared the same unspoken anxiety: they were entering the unknown, and no past experience could truly prepare them for what awaited them.

The Cape of Good Hope was rounded without major incident, although a storm had shaken them for two days, tearing away a sail and sending two barrels of provisions overboard. Then came the immensity of the Indian Ocean, this liquid void punctuated by a few lost islands where they made stops to replenish fresh water.

At Aden, a British port with an infernal climate, they stayed five days. The men could go ashore, drink lukewarm beer in smoky taverns where sailors of all nationalities mingled. Montauban took advantage of this to meet the British governor, an obese and smug colonel who confirmed that the English fleet was en route to China.

"General Grant is a determined man. He won't let the Chinese get away with it this time. We're going to show them what the British Empire is made of."

Montauban listened politely, but British arrogance annoyed him. The English considered themselves masters of the world, and their way of speaking about other peoples, with a mixture of condescension and contempt, revealed a colonial mentality that exasperated him.

"We hope, Colonel, that this campaign will be conducted with respect for the laws of war. France does not wish to be associated with excesses."

The colonel burst into a greasy laugh that made his triple chin tremble.

"The laws of war! Mon général, you'll quickly learn that Orientals don't know these laws. They're perfidious, cruel, unpredictable. You must speak to them in the only language they understand: that of force."

Montauban restrained himself from responding. He saluted coldly and left the governor's residence with a presentiment. Coordination with the English would be difficult. Their objectives weren't the same, their vision of the world was radically different.

Back on the ship, he convened his staff and shared his concerns with them.

"We'll have to be vigilant. The English have their own agenda. The opium trade, territorial expansion, the humiliation of China. We French must remain faithful to our objectives: the protection of our Catholic missions, commercial opening, dignity in victory."

"If there is victory," Favier murmured.

"There will be victory. Because we have no other choice."

Singapore was their last stop before Hong Kong. The port swarmed with activity, a mixture of Chinese junks, British steamers, Arab dhows. The air was saturated with humidity and exotic smells: spices, incense, dried fish, tropical fruits. For most of the French soldiers, this was their first contact with the Orient, and they wandered through the narrow streets with the amazed eyes of children discovering a New World.

Montauban took advantage of this to meet French merchants established in the region. These men, who lived in Asia, had an intimate knowledge of the Chinese situation.

In a private salon of a colonial hotel, he conversed with a certain Monsieur Dufresne, a silk trader who did business with Canton.

"Mon général, you cannot imagine the state of chaos reigning in China right now. The Qing empire is being eaten away from within. The Taiping rebellion has caused hundreds of thousands of deaths. The southern provinces are in civil war. Emperor Hien-Fung is weak, manipulated by incompetent advisers."

"Which should facilitate our task, no?"

Dufresne shook his head vehemently.

"Don't be mistaken. An empire in decomposition is more dangerous than a strong empire. Because it has nothing left to lose. Because the usual rules no longer apply. I've seen dreadful things these past years. Entire villages massacred, families decimated. Violence has reached unimaginable levels."

"Will the Chinese fight?"

"Oh yes, they'll fight. Not in a conventional manner, perhaps. But they'll fight. And if you reach Beijing, if you threaten the heart of the empire…"

"Speak frankly, Monsieur Dufresne. What do you fear?"

The merchant crushed his cigar in an ashtray.

"I fear you'll unleash a force that no one can control. The Chinese have a tenacious memory. If you humiliate their emperor, if you desecrate their sacred places, if you pillage their treasures… they'll never forget it. And we, French who live here, who do business with them, we'll pay the price for generations."

Montauban left this interview troubled. Dufresne's words resonated in his mind, joining his wife's concerns, Delmas's doubts, his own questions. But it was too late to turn back. The die were cast, the troops en route. All that remained was for him to do his best so that this campaign ended in the most honorable manner possible.

In mid-February, after more than two months of crossing, the coasts of Hong Kong appeared on the horizon. Green hills stood out against a limpid blue sky. The port teemed with British ships, their flags snapping in the wind. General Grant's fleet was there, imposing, threatening.

When L'Impératrice Eugénie dropped anchor in the roadstead, a British launch approached. On board, an officer in scarlet uniform who introduced himself as Major Worthington, General Grant's aide-de-camp.

"General de Montauban, General Grant presents his compliments and invites you to a planning meeting tomorrow morning aboard HMS Furious. Lord Elgin will also be present."

Montauban nodded stiffly. The moment he dreaded had arrived. He would have to collaborate closely with these English he didn't know, share with them the dangers and perhaps also the responsibilities of decisions he disapproved of.

That night, unable to find sleep, he wrote to Louise:

"My dear Louise,

We have arrived in Hong Kong after a crossing that seemed interminable to me. The men are well, morale is good. Tomorrow, I will meet the English to establish our campaign plan.

I often think of you, of our daughters. Of Paris which is so far away, so different from this Orient where we find ourselves. Sometimes, I wonder what I'm doing here, why I accepted this mission. And then I remember that I'm a soldier, that my duty is to serve the Emperor.

You told me, before my departure, that you feared I would lose something of myself in this campaign. I laughed, with that masculine peculiarity that refuses to listen to feminine intuitions. But perhaps you were right. I feel that things are happening within me that I cannot fully understand.

Pray for us, my sweet. Pray that we remain men of honor, whatever happens. Your husband who loves you, Charles"

He sealed the letter, knowing it would take months to reach Paris, that Louise would read it when perhaps everything would be over. But writing did him good, created a tenuous link with this world he had left behind.

The First Battles

The next day's meeting was everything Montauban had feared. In the spacious cabin of HMS Furious, the British flagship, about twenty English and French officers crowded around a vast table where a map of the Tientsin region was displayed.

General Grant was a man of tall stature and curt manners. Lord Elgin, the British plenipotentiary, was shorter, rounder, but his piercing gaze and cutting voice revealed a dominating personality.

"Gentlemen," Elgin began in English before repeating in approximate French, "we are here to avenge the affront the Chinese inflicted on us last year. This time, there will be no failure. We will take the Dagu forts, we will go up the Pei-Ho to Tientsin, and if necessary, we will march on Beijing. The Chinese emperor will sign the treaty, or we will make him sign it by force."

Montauban politely waited for the end of the speech, then intervened.

"Lord Elgin, I believe a frontal attack on the Dagu forts would be a strategic error. The Chinese have reinforced their defenses. They're expecting us. I propose we land further north, at Peh-Tang, and take the forts from behind."

The British officers exchanged glances where could be read their opinion of these French who pretended to give them strategy lessons.

Grant leaned over the map, studied the position of Peh-Tang, then raised his head.

"General de Montauban, your suggestion has merit. But it also presents risks. Peh-Tang is twenty kilometers to the north. That means a march through hostile territory, without naval cover."

"I know. But it's preferable to a frontal assault that would cost hundreds of lives."

Elgin intervened, his voice charged with impatience.

"General, we're not afraid of combat. British honor demands that we confront the enemy where he challenges us."

"Honor doesn't demand suicide. I won't sacrifice my men to satisfy an abstract principle."

The French and English measured each other with their gazes, each entrenched in their positions. It was Baron Gros who tempered the situation.

"Gentlemen, we are allies in this enterprise. Our objectives are the same: to force China to respect the treaties. The means of achieving this can be the subject of reasonable discussion. I propose that we study both options in detail, that we evaluate their respective advantages and risks, and that we make a common decision based on military logic rather than national pride."

Spirits calmed. The discussion resumed, more technical, less impassioned. Maps were unrolled, calculations made, scenarios envisioned.

After three hours of debate, a compromise was found. The allied forces would land at Peh-Tang, as Montauban wished, but part of the British fleet would conduct a demonstration before the Dagu forts to fix the Chinese defenders' attention.

When the meeting ended, Montauban went out on deck with a mixed feeling. He had won on the essential point, but at the price of lasting tension with the British. Grant had looked at him with a new coldness, and Elgin hadn't even deigned to shake his hand on leaving.

Baron Gros found him a few moments later, an enigmatic smile on his lips.

"You made enemies today, mon général."

"I don't care. What matters is my men. Their lives are worth more than Lord Elgin's friendship."

"Noble sentiment. But we're going to have to live with these people for months. This coldness could complicate many things."

Montauban shrugged and fixed on the Hong Kong harbor extending before them, a human anthill where Chinese, Europeans, Malays mingled in an incessant commercial ballet.

"The English will eventually understand that I'm right. When we've taken the forts without excessive losses, they'll forget their resentment."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps they'll seek to make up for it later, to take revenge on our prudence through excessive audacity. The British sometimes have unpredictable reactions when their pride is wounded."

These prophetic words would mark Montauban for a long time. But for now, he had other concerns. Preparations for the landing, logistical organization, coordination with different army corps. The time for reflection was over. That of action was approaching.

Intensive preparations began rapidly. French troops trained on Hong Kong's beaches, simulating landings, testing their equipment in the stifling heat and crushing humidity. Many soldiers fell ill, struck by tropical fevers or dysenteries that decimated the ranks as surely as a battle.

Sergeant Beaumont, with his section, participated in these daily exercises. The recruits had matured during the crossing, their features had lost that adolescent roundness. They were men, or at least what came closest to it.

One evening, as they bivouacked on a beach, Beaumont gathered his section.

"Listen to me well, lads. In a few days, we'll embark for real. We'll go north, and there, we're going to fight. It won't be like the exercises. There will be blood, fear, chaos. Some of you will die. That's the reality of war, and I'm not going to lie to you by saying otherwise."

The silence was total. Even the insects seemed to be waiting. Dubois, the soldier who had suffered so much from seasickness, asked in a trembling voice:

"Sergeant, how do we avoid being afraid?"

Beaumont stared at him before responding.

"We can't. Fear is always there. Even for me, after twenty years of service. Even for the general. What matters isn't not being afraid. It's doing your duty despite the fear. Staying at your post. Protecting the comrade next to you. That's being a soldier."

"And if we find ourselves face to face with a Chinese? If we have to kill him?"

"You'll kill him. Because otherwise, he'll kill you. There are no scruples in a battle. There's only survival."

Corporal Leroux, who had listened in silence, intervened.

"They say the Chinese mutilate their prisoners. That they cut off their heads and plant them on spikes."

"Latrine nonsense. The Chinese are men like us. They're afraid like us, they suffer like us, they die like us. Don't dehumanize them by imagining horrors. That only serves to justify our own atrocities."

The conversation drifted to other subjects, lighter ones. The soldiers spoke of their families, their villages, what they would do when they returned to France. Beaumont let them dream, knowing that these dreams were sometimes the only thing that kept a man alive in the darkest moments.

But not all would return. Some of these faces he saw would soon disappear, carried away by a bullet, a disease, or by war's cruel chance.

The departure took place in early July. An imposing fleet of French and British ships left Hong Kong heading north. The troop transports were escorted by frigates, their cannons pointed toward the horizon like so many promises of violence.

On the deck of L'Impératrice Eugénie, Montauban watched the port recede. Delmas stood at his side, silent. Between them, a new complicity had developed, born of these nocturnal conversations where they shared their doubts and hopes.

"Are you ready, Captain?"

"As much as one can be, mon général. I've thought about what you told me. About the nature of the expedition, about what awaits us. I've tried to prepare myself mentally."

"And?"

"I don't know if it's possible to prepare for certain things. There are situations where all our principles, all our convictions are put to the test. I pray to have the strength to remain faithful to what I believe."

"We all pray for that. But sometimes, war changes us despite ourselves. I've seen good men become cruel, honorable men commit infamy. Not by choice, but because circumstances drove them to it. Be vigilant, Delmas. Stay conscious of your actions. That's the only thing I can advise you."