Pillage

He stopped his horse.

"We're heading northwest. There's a fortified village about fifteen kilometers away. The scouts report that Chinese troops have entrenched themselves there. We'll probably have to force passage."

"More blood. Always more blood."

"It's war, Sergeant. You know that as well as I do."

"I know. But it doesn't get any easier."

Delmas approved and withdrew. He understood what Beaumont felt. He too was weary of these incessant combats, of these victories that had a taste of ashes. But they had no choice. They had to advance, always advance, until the Chinese emperor capitulated or their forces were exhausted.

The column progressed for three hours through landscapes alternating between flooded rice paddies and sorghum fields. The heat was overwhelming, humidity saturated the air to the point one had the impression of breathing water. Uniforms stuck to skin, packs weighed more and more on tired shoulders.

Around ten o'clock, the first gunshots rang out. Isolated shooters, hidden in the tall grass, harassed the column. Their bullets whistled overhead, rarely causing damage, but keeping the soldiers in a state of constant tension.

"Skirmishers forward!" an officer shouted. "Clean out those bushes for me!"

Light infantry deployed in dispersed order, carefully searching suspect areas. From time to time, a volley rang out, followed by a cry. Sometimes it was a Chinese who fell, sometimes a Frenchman. War continued, implacable, reducing men to statistics, to figures in military reports.

The fortified village appeared in early afternoon. An agglomeration of about a hundred houses surrounded by a rammed earth wall. Chinese flags floated on the ramparts, and silhouettes of soldiers could be seen coming and going.

Montauban had the column halt a kilometer from the village and convened his officers. They gathered around a map displayed on a cart hood, studying the topography of the place.

"Classic defensive position. They have the terrain advantage, solid walls, doubtless reserves of food and ammunition. A frontal assault would be costly."

"We won't attack frontally. Favier, install your artillery on that hill, to the east. You're going to pound the defenses. Meanwhile, Collineau, you'll go around the village from the north with your brigade. When the defenders are concentrated on our artillery, you'll strike from the rear."

"And if the Chinese have anticipated this maneuver? If they're waiting for us in the north?"

"We'll improvise. But I doubt they have the troops to defend all sides at once."

Orders were transmitted. The French army split into several groups, each heading toward its assigned position. The soldiers marched with that tension preceding combat, checking their weapons, adjusting their equipment, exchanging a few words in low voices.

Beaumont gathered his section behind a copse of stunted trees and repeated to them what he had already said multiple times.

"Listen to me well. In an hour, perhaps less, we're going to attack this village. Some of you will die. Others will be wounded. I'm not going to lie to you by saying otherwise."

He let his words take effect, examining the faces that tensed, the jaws that clenched.

"But if you stay together, if you support each other, if you obey orders without hesitating, you have a chance. A good chance. We're the best soldiers in the world. Never forget that."

The French artillery opened fire at precisely two o'clock. The cannons thundered in a deafening concert, spitting their iron cannonballs against the village walls. The result was immediate. Entire sections of wall collapsed in clouds of dust, roofs flew off, fires broke out here and there.

From his position, Montauban observed the bombardment with a satisfaction mixed with unease. A demonstration of crushing power, but it also reminded him how much modern war had become impersonal. Men died at a distance, killed by projectiles launched by artillerymen who would never see them, who would never know their names, who would never bear the weight of their deaths.

"Mon général, Collineau's brigade is in position. It awaits your signal to attack."

"Have it wait ten minutes. I want the Chinese to be completely disoriented before launching the assault."

These ten minutes elapsed in the continuous din of artillery. The French cannons fired with metronome regularity, destroying enemy defenses. In the village, one could imagine the panic, the terror, the wounded screaming, the dead piling up.

Montauban gave the signal. A flag waved on the hill, and Collineau's brigade launched the assault. Five thousand men surged from the north shouting, rushing toward the breaches opened in the walls.

Chinese resistance was short, but intense. The defenders, stunned by the bombardment, tried to repel the assailants with frenetic bravery. Hand-to-hand combat broke out in the narrow alleys, brutal and merciless.

Beaumont and his section were part of the second assault wave. They discovered a spectacle of devastation. Dismembered bodies littered the streets, houses burned, wounded crawled moaning.

"Forward!" Beaumont shouted. "Don't stop, keep advancing!"

They progressed through the burning village, pushing back the last pockets of resistance. Dubois fired at a Chinese soldier charging toward him, hitting him square in the chest. The man collapsed coughing blood, his eyes wide staring at the sky in an expression of frozen surprise.

The young Frenchman remained petrified, contemplating the man he had just killed. Beaumont slapped him violently.

"No time for that! Reload your rifle and advance!"

Dubois obeyed mechanically, but his face had become cadaverously pale. Something had just broken in him, something that would never be repaired.

The combat was brief. When silence fell again, the village was conquered. The Chinese survivors had fled to the west, abandoning their wounded and their dead. The French counted their losses: fifteen dead, about forty wounded. The Chinese had left nearly three hundred corpses.

Montauban entered the village on horseback, escorted by his staff. Around him, soldiers searched abandoned houses, looking for food, water, sometimes valuable objects.

"Stop the pillaging. I want strict discipline. These people will perhaps return when we've left. They mustn't have the impression we're savages."

Jamin moved away to transmit the order, but Montauban knew he was limited in his power. Pillaging was as old as war itself. One could circumscribe it, not prevent it. Soldiers took what they wanted, justifying their acts by the dangers they faced, by the distance from home, by the certainty that no one would really punish them.

In an interior courtyard, Chief Surgeon Renaud had installed his aid station. Wounded lay on mats, waiting their turn. Some screamed in pain, others remained still, their gaze empty. Renaud went from one to another, providing his care.

"Mon général, we have a problem. Several of our wounded have been hit by poisoned weapons. Arrows dipped in who knows what substance. The wounds are becoming infected at a terrifying speed."

"Can you save them?"

"Perhaps. If we amputate without delay, before the poison spreads throughout the organism. But it will be painful, and I lack opium to anesthetize them."

"Do what you can. They're our men."

Renaud nodded and returned to his bloody work. Montauban moved away, unable to bear any longer the cries of the amputees. He had commanded armies, won victories, received decorations. But these cries of mutilated men haunted him more than any battle.

Night fell on the conquered village. The French soldiers established their encampment in the ruins, lighting fires to warm themselves. The atmosphere was singular, a mixture of relief at having survived and unease in the face of the destruction they had caused.

Beaumont sat with his men around a fire, sharing a ration of canned beef that had an unappetizing metallic taste. No one spoke. The soldiers ate silently, lost in their thoughts.

It was Leroux who broke this oppressive silence.

"Sergeant, have you ever killed a man up close? I mean, while looking at him?"

Beaumont continued his meal without answering right away. A question that had been asked of him dozens of times over the years, and he had never found a satisfactory answer.

"Yes. In Algeria. A rebel who had taken me by surprise in an oasis. We struggled for what seemed like an eternity to me. I ended up planting my knife in his throat. I felt his warm blood flowing over my hands. I saw the light go out in his eyes."

"And how… how did you manage to continue? To live with that memory?"

"We have no choice. We continue because we must continue. We drink a bit more than reasonable, we try not to think about it too much, we concentrate on the comrades who are alive."

He waited a moment.

"And then, with time, the memory becomes less vivid. Not that we forget, no. We never forget. But it hurts less."

Dubois, who had barely touched his food, intervened in a strangled voice.

"I killed him today. That Chinese. I watched him die. And I can't help wondering who he was. If he had a family. Children waiting for him somewhere, who will never know what happened to him."

"Don't do that. Don't inflict that torture on yourself. You did what you had to do. You defended your life and that of your comrades. That's all that matters."

"But he was a man, Sergeant. A human being, like us. He hadn't done anything to us."

"He wore an enemy uniform. He was defending a position we had to attack. That's enough. War isn't a personal matter, Dubois. It's a matter of States, of politics, of things beyond us all."

The young soldier shook his head negatively, unconvinced. He got up and moved away from the fire, seeking solitude. Beaumont let him go, knowing each must confront his demons in his own way.

Dambach, who had listened to the exchange, spat in the fire.

"All this for what? To force the Chinese to buy our merchandise? So merchants get rich while we die here?"

"Careful, Dambach. That kind of talk can lead you before a court-martial."

"I don't care. I'm saying what everyone thinks. This expedition makes no sense. We kill people who've done nothing to us, we destroy villages, we burn crops. And for what? For the Empire's honor?"

Beaumont remained silent. He shared these doubts. But he was a sergeant, he had to maintain discipline, preserve morale. He swallowed his own questions and forced himself to smile.

"This war will have meaning when we return to France, covered in glory, with pockets full of money and medals on our chests. That counts, lads. Not philosophy. The reward."

But his words rang false, even to his own ears.

The Summer Palace

Meanwhile, in an abandoned house transformed into a temporary headquarters, Montauban presided over a meeting with his principal officers. General Grant was also present, as well as Lord Elgin and Baron Gros. The atmosphere was tense.

"Gentlemen," Elgin began, pacing the room, "we have received news of our prisoners. Horrifying news."

He stopped and turned toward the assembly, his features contracted with emotion.

"Eighteen of our men are dead. Dead in Chinese dungeons, after having been tortured in the most barbaric manner. Their bodies have been found, mutilated, disfigured. Some had been tied in impossible positions until their limbs broke. Others had been deprived of water and food until they died of thirst."

A horrified silence followed these revelations. Even the most hardened French officers paled at the enumeration of these atrocities.

"Unacceptable. Violation of all laws of war, of all conventions between civilized nations. The Chinese must pay for these crimes. They must be punished in an exemplary manner."

"What do you propose?"

"I propose we destroy something precious to them. Something that will make them understand one doesn't treat British envoys this way."

"You're speaking of the Summer Palace?"

Elgin faced the Frenchman, his gaze inflexible.

"The Summer Palace is the emperor's favorite residence. It's where he keeps his most precious treasures, his rarest art objects. Its destruction would be a violent blow to imperial prestige."

"It would also be an unprecedented act of cultural vandalism," Gros objected. "You're talking about destroying centuries of art and civilization. Irreplaceable works."

"I'm talking about justice, Baron Gros. Of vengeance for men tortured to death. Your scruples weigh little against these atrocities."

The baron turned toward Montauban, seeking support. But the French general remained silent, his face closed. He was reflecting on the situation, weighing the different options.

"Mon général, you cannot condone this. France has always defended the arts, culture, the preservation of humanity's heritage. We cannot associate ourselves with the deliberate destruction of a historic monument."

"The Chinese tortured diplomats to death. A fact that demands a response."

"But not that one! Not gratuitous destruction! There are other means to punish the responsible parties, to make them pay for their crimes."

"Which ones?" Elgin asked with contempt. "A fine? An additional clause in the treaty? The Chinese mock these punishments. They only understand force, the demonstration of power."

Grant, who had remained silent until then, intervened.

"Lord Elgin is right. Our men were massacred. We must respond. The question isn't whether we should act, but how and with what scope."

The discussion continued for about twenty minutes, opposing those who wanted spectacular vengeance and those who pleaded for moderation. No formal decision was made. Elgin declared he would consult London, Montauban promised to refer to Paris. But everyone knew communications took months, and that decisions would be made on the ground, by men who didn't have time to wait for instructions from so far away.

When the meeting ended and the participants dispersed, Montauban retained Delmas.

"Captain, what do you think? Honestly."

Delmas hesitated. The question was a trap. Telling the truth risked endangering his career. But lying would betray the values he strove to preserve.

"I think, mon général, that we're on a dangerous slope. That each act of violence calls for another. That if we destroy this palace, we'll cross a line we can't cross back."

"And if we don't destroy it? If we let the British do it alone?"

"We'll at least be able to look ourselves in the mirror without too much shame. We won't be accomplices to this act."

"You're an idealist. It's admirable. But idealism doesn't survive war. Sooner or later, you'll have to make compromises. Everyone does."

"Not you. You have values that transcend these contingencies."

"I'm a man who obeys. Nuance."

The officer saluted and withdrew, leaving Montauban alone with his thoughts. The general sat on a stool. He thought of Louise, his daughters, of Paris that seemed to belong to another world. He thought of these eighteen men tortured to death, of their suffering, of their families who would soon receive the terrible news. He also thought of this mysterious palace everyone spoke of, of these treasures that aroused so much covetousness.

And he wondered, for the hundredth time, how he had come to this. How a man who believed himself honorable, who had devoted his life to serving France, could find himself complicit in acts he disapproved of.

The following days, the allied army continued its progression toward Beijing. Other villages were taken, other battles fought. Victories accumulated, but the human cost also increased. Each day brought its share of dead and wounded, of soldiers exhausted by the march and heat, of sick struck down by tropical diseases.

Troop morale was rapidly degrading.

In his section, Beaumont did his best to maintain cohesion. He organized card games in the evening, told stories of his past campaigns, distributed his own tobacco when supplies were late. But discipline was eroding.

Dubois had become taciturn. He accomplished his tasks mechanically, but his gaze was empty, lost in thoughts no one could reach. Beaumont worried about him. He had seen other soldiers sink thus into a melancholy that could lead them to desertion or worse, to suicide.

Dambach, on the contrary, had become cynical and bitter. He openly criticized officers, questioned orders, encouraged pillaging and gratuitous violence. A disruptive element Beaumont had to watch constantly.

One evening, as the section bivouacked near a stream, Beaumont took Dambach aside.

"You're going to calm down. Your comments are demoralizing the others. If you continue, I'll have you put in irons."

"On what grounds? For having told the truth?"

"For insubordination. For undermining troop morale. Choose the formulation you prefer. The result will be the same: you'll be punished."

Dambach spat on the ground with contempt.

"You're all the same, you non-coms. Always licking the officers' boots. Never thinking of the men you command."

Beaumont seized Dambach by the collar and slammed him against a tree.

"Listen to me well, you little shit. I've seen things you can't even imagine. I've buried more comrades than you've ever known. And if I'm here, if I'm a sergeant, it's because I care about my men. Because I do everything in my power to get them back to France alive."

"By sending them to get killed in useless battles?"

"By keeping them disciplined, organized, united. Because in this war, that's the only thing that can save them. Not your complaints, not your criticisms. Discipline and solidarity."

He released Dambach who withdrew muttering insults. Beaumont hadn't convinced the soldier. But perhaps he had made him think, at least for the moment.

October 6, 1860, was a date that would remain engraved in the history of this campaign. That day, the allied armies reached the outskirts of Beijing. The imperial capital stood before them, its imposing walls outlined against the horizon, its glazed tile roofs shining in the sun.