The General's Mistress by Jo Graham

casualties numbered fewer than fifty. Moreau was in high spirits, and so were his men.
    As was so often the case after a battle, he could not retire until the wee hours. There was too much to do, reports to be written and dispatched to Paris by courier, captured papers to be examined, supply to be considered. I sat alone in our sleeping tent for many hours. Outside, I could hear a great deal of revelry. I was wearing my riding costume, the buff breeches and blue coat that, in the right light, might look like our uniform. My hair was pulled back, and I wore stout boots.
    I waited and I waited and I waited. I thought of simply going to bed, but the noise was too great. There were loud songs and laughter, shouts and swearing and stamping of feet. I should never sleep in this din. It occurred to me that I could go to his day tent, the large one that he used for his headquarters, and find him. Surely he must be nearly done with his paperwork by now. Passing his servant and the sentries at the door, I set out across the camp.
    Men were spilling out of pitched tents, going from one gambling game to another, tankards in hand. There was the reek of hard spirits everywhere. In the light of various fires, I could see those who had imbibed too much lying in corners, or sometimes being robbed of their valuables by their fellow soldiers. Drunk men pissed against the sides of the officers’ tents or wherever else they chose. I pulled my hat lower over my eyes and walked more quickly.
    I was nearly to Moreau’s tent when a scream rent the night behind me. I turned. Three men had grabbed a cantinière, a girl scarcely older than I, and were hauling her behind one of the tents. She was flailing and shrieking, trying to ward them off. One of them laughed and grabbed her bodice. I heard the ripping of cloth.
    I ran into Moreau’s tent, past the startled and bored guards who did not react in time to stop me. He looked up from his papers in astonishment.
    I grabbed at his arm. “Victor, you must come. There is a girl being raped not a hundred meters from here.”
    “The scream I heard?”
    “Yes,” I said, pulling at him. “A cantinière. Come, Victor.”
    He looked at me and one eyebrow quirked. “What would you have me do, my dear? Go charging in like a white knight?”
    I stared at him.
    “If it is a cantinière, then she’s used to it. That’s what they do, my dear.”
    “But . . .”
    He took my hand off his arm and held it between his own. “My dear, I told you not to go about the camp at night by yourself, and I am sorry that you had a fright. But these things happen.”
    “They happen because—”
    “They happen because men are men,” he said harshly. “You have no idea what you are talking about. These men are volunteers, rabble from streets and farms from one end of France to the other. Some are criminals released when the Republic opened the Bourbon prisons, and others might as well be. They are what I have with which to defend the Republic. I am here to make them a fighting force that can hold, not to make them morally exemplary.”
    My confusion must have shown on my face.
    He took my arm gently. “Now, my dear. Calmly.” He looked over the paper-strewn table. “You are frightened. I suppose I can complete this paperwork tomorrow.”
    Moreau escorted me back to his tent. I did not look in the direction they had taken her. And I did not hear anything over the general uproar.

    A t dawn, the camp was finally silent.
    I lay quiet beside him, not sleeping. I should put it from my mind, I thought. What could I have done? What could I be expected to do? These things happen, as I know all too well. What is one more rape, one more prisoner ill-treated, one more complaint from a local?
    Men will be men, and these things happen.
    I turned, and Victor curled a little closer to my warm back, affectionate in sleep as he was not when awake.
    And what should I expect? Some Paladin of Charlemagne? A white knight wading in with