Chaos in Milan by Edale Lane

Author:Edale Lane [Lane, Edale]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Past and Prologue Press
Published: 2020-12-07T22:00:00+00:00

Stragglers continued to wander into the make-shift camp of the tattered remains of the once proud French army and its Milanese attachments. They had no tents, no supply wagons, no cannons or munitions, no provisions at all save what each man had on his person and the few horses which had been saved. The commander of the Swiss mercenaries had assumed charge over the survivors and had ordered that they would march north to find refuge at the fortress of Gaeta; but tonight the men were hungry and tired, with crushed spirits and a collective hollow sense of profound loss.

Antonio sat with his sketchbook, putting pencil to paper to record all that he had seen that day. It seemed a calming release to him as he poured all his emotions into his art. Papi rested near him, nursing a rare cup of ale Conte had procured for him. With a blanket wrapped around his shoulders he said, “Tomorrow Roberto and I are going into town to dance with the girls at the tavern.” His voice was peaceful and his eyes held the distant look of one in a daydream.

Turning a page, Antonio gazed at his traumatized friend and began to draw him. His ears picked up voices around the campfire. “How many did we lose?” one asked.

Captain Marseilles answered, “Close to half; maybe four thousand, but more are trickling in.”

“Perhaps our losses were not that great,” a tenor voice steeped in hope mentioned. “What about the enemy? They must have lost just as many.”

“My intelligence says not,” Marseilles bemoaned. “Only a tenth the number—five hundred at most.”

“How is that possible?” a baritone sounded in disbelief.

Antonio had been unaware he was listening so intently until he heard himself reply. “We charged into a trap. They had dug trenches that our cavalry fell into, and those arquebusiers cut our troops to pieces. I saw thousands of them, kept hearing those shots firing over, and over, and over… I’ll hear them in my sleep for months.”

Marseilles stepped over to him and Antonio looked up into the captain’s scrutinizing gaze. “You see things,” he observed, then his eyes fell upon the sketchbook. “May I?” He held out a hand.

Antonio passed it up to who was now the officer directly above him in the chain of command. Marseilles turned the pages with care and nodded, a grave expression on his face. The man looked ten years older tonight than he had that morning. “Yes, you do see things,” he confirmed and handed the art book back. “You have a gift. Thank you for honoring our fallen with this record of what happened today.”

He may have noticed hunger gnawing at his belly if his heart had not been overflowing with grief. “Thank you,” he responded.

“I believe your assessment of the battle is accurate,” Marseilles concurred. “Nemours’ instincts were correct; we should have waited, scouted, and had our artillery in position. But alas, he was too easily influenced by others and well, here we are. He is dead, and we are defeated.

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