Charles IV, The Gravedigger
Charles Godefroi Sophie Jules Marie de Rohan never knew his father. But he never knew he had three more middle names or his true last name, either, and he was content regardless.
Charles’ worries lay in the earth, like the corpses he was digging holes for would soon rest. He had to dig six feet deep, and dig fast. The more corpses you made homes for, the more you’d be paid at the end of the day, which was still next to nothing. Charles did not mind, though. Not because he was a hard worker, nor for any love for the Polish army that ensured a steady supply of dead to bury, but because it was the best he had ever had in his young, brutal life. He hated getting dirty, but he had been far dirtier.
He focused on the scoopful of dirt in his knotted old spade’s mouth, and then put it out of his mind just as quickly, just as carefully, he flung it over his shoulder onto the mound waiting to undo, or, as he chose to perceive it when he was feeling optimistic, complete, his work. The crunch of brittle metal stabbing through the dirt established the second point of the set of repetitions that comprised his labor.
The rusty head gulped its fill and spewed it gracefully onto the pile once again, completing the process of making downward progress — a repetition of up, and down. Full, and empty. Foot, by foot.
He finished the hole and mopped his forehead with the long past stained rag he kept tucked in his waistband. He hoisted himself out of the grave and looked over at the crude row of graves already completed. He had done half, his colleague, Alojzy, the other. Though Charles had dug his faster, he would always maintain between the two.
“Lovely day, eh, Aloj?” he said, peering down into the grunting man’s hole.
“Your jokes,” the bald man groaned under his shovelful of earth, “are never any good, Charles. Much like this lousy heat.” He swiped the perspiration from his brow and thrust the same hand up to Charles for a lift out of the hole.
Charles saw the sweat coating his plump friend’s hand but hoisted him up anyway. Alojzy made more of a huff than Charles, despite his aid, and stood squinting, his mouth ajar like a dog. This made Charles forgive his friend’s lack of discretion, for the one thing that Charles was rich in —despite others’ claims otherwise— was humor.
“Today I believe I was born somewhere hot like Spain. It doesn’t bother me a bit!” he proclaimed.
Alojzy frowned and leaned onto his shovel. He was a good enough friend, and had been Charles’ since they were both urchins. Preposterously, he was even poorer than Charles, due to some reigning habits, and was often wracked with worry and despair over his financial situation. Charles would listen to him gripe about this cheater at a card game, or this soldier he owed money, and he would make jokes so that Alojzy could direct his irritation at Charles and forget about the harsh world.
Nothing was harsher than death, so why add things to contribute to the death of you, was how he saw it, especially as a gravedigger.
“That was your theory last summer. If these were Spanish corpses filling these holes, maybe we’d be able to determine that.”
Charles framed a smile and hefted his shovel onto his shoulder. “That was the end of my side, Aloj. Find me when you’re finished, we’ll go to the tavern.”
Charles started toward the quartermaster, the official delegated supervision of the gravediggers that were in the Polish military’s employ. Alojzy called out something after him about not having any money but he knew he’d see him there anyway.
“That’s five today, sir,” Charles informed the skeletal bean-counter.
“Eh?” the man croaked from under his pile of paperwork. “Ah, Charles Godefroi. My best man. Here’s your pay, son. There will be plenty more waiting for you come winter.”
Charles raised an eyebrow at the cryptic old fellow and asked him what he meant.
“You haven’t heard. As of this morning, we are at war with Prussia!”
“Prussia? What’s happened? More nonsense about Gdańsk?”
The Quartermaster shook his head with such enthusiasm Charles could hear the bones in his neck creak. “Saxony, my boy! The Prussians marched into the little state last night and seized the whole place for themselves. As Saxony’s master, we are obligated to fight to liberate them.”
“Saxony…” Charles whispered more to himself than to the death's head smiling up at him.
“Yes, sir. We set out to rendezvous with the Austrians once the army is mustered. They will guide us through their territory and accompany us on our mission of rescue.” He slammed his ledger shut and blew out the candle illuminating his tiny office. “Get your things together, and tell that good-for-nothing Alojzy not to get thrown in jail again. I’ll stay behind myself just to whip him, if he does!” he griped in the darkness.
“I will, sir. God be with you,” Charles said uneasily, making his exit.
“God be with you, Charles Godefroi,” the Quartermaster’s voice trailed after him.