by L. A. Meyer
I lead my little mare around to the front of the building and find that Wellesley has moved his campaign outdoors. There is a slight rise of ground that gives a fine view of the battleground.
I tie Isabella to a rail that is already lined with horses and walk over to the center of activity, in the middle of which is, of course, General Sir Arthur Wellesley.
Dawn is beginning to pink up the eastern horizon, and that is the direction from which the French will come. There is a road leading between two low ridges to here.
And there they are, all in red, white, and blue . . .
The sun is even higher now, and we can see the advancing French columns surging right up the road leading to the town. There’s certainly nothing very subtle about the direction of their march over the plain. They are heading directly for us and mean to overpower our poor lads with their overwhelming might.
Oh, Lord . . .
“I see you are being English today, Miss Faber,” growls the General upon seeing me. “What are you doing here?”
I bring heels together, put hand to brim, and snap off a salute. “I was messenger to Bonaparte, and I shall be messenger to you, Sir, as well.”
“Harrumph. Well, stay out of the way, girl.”
I give a slight bow, more of a nod, really, and step back to stand with a group of red-coated junior officers—plainly messengers, I surmise, and I find out I am right when one of them is called to the big table, given a paper, and sent off to the north. Undoubtedly to Anstruther’s Seventh Brigade, which lies over the hills in that direction.
My fellow messengers eye me curiously, but I am certainly used to that. Excitement is high, but one of them who steps from the throng manages to ask, “Are you really Jacky Faber? It’s said around camp that you are, indeed, she.”
I give him the Lawson Peabody Look—eyelids at half mast beneath the brim of my shako, lips together, teeth apart—and say, “That’s Lieutenant Jacky Faber, Ensign, and yes, I suppose I am.”
“My word,” he says, visibly impressed. “Jacky Faber standing right here. Imagine that.”
There are none of the regular brigade commanders here, all eight of them—Crawfurd, Anstruther, Acland, Fane, Ferguson, Nightingall, Bowes, and Hill—are off with their troops. There are, however, two generals in our midst whom I had not seen before. Curious, that . . . arriving on the scene so close to the start of the battle.
“Imagine what you will, lad, but who are those two?” I ask of my new admirer, nodding in the direction of the two brass hats.
“Generals Burrard and Dalrymple, newly arrived from home.” He leans into me and whispers, “From what I hear, I don’t think Old Nosey is at all pleased.”
“Hmmm . . . ‘Many cooks spoil the stew’ comes to mind.”
“Indeed, that is the supposition. Ahem . . . Would you mind, Lieutenant, if I were to touch your arm?”
“Wot?”
“It would mean a lot to me, Miss,” he stammers, “if I could tell all and sundry that I touched the arm of the one who rubbed shoulders with Napoleon himself.”
I cut him a sharp look. “Where did you hear about that?”
“That new book, My Bonny Light Horseman, came out just before we left England. It was in all the bookshops. I enjoyed it hugely,” he says, blushing prettily. “Especially the part where you—”
“Never mind that,” I say, working up a bit of a blush myself, as I can well imagine to what part—or parts—he is referring. Geez, Amy, did you leave nothing out?
I give him a quick look-over. He is a very pleasant- looking lad, seventeen if he’s a day, and probably anticipating his first real shave.
“You know my name, soldier,” I say. “What’s yours?”
“Connell, Miss. T-T-Timothy Connell,” he says, stut-tering.
“Well, Ensign Timothy Connell, you may tell all and sundry about this . . .” And I lean over and plant a kiss on his downy cheek.
The blush triples in intensity.
“Oh, Miss!” he exults, the upcoming battle apparently forgotten in the magic of the moment. He puts hand to recently kissed cheek and dons a faraway look. “That will be a story to tell!”
Boys, I swear . . .
Just then the very irregular Commander Montoya rides up, followed by several of his similarly irregular troops—all of them dressed in ragged dark clothing with bandoleers crossed over their chests, black broad-brimmed hats on their heads. He dismounts, tosses the reins to an orderly, and strides over to the big table. He hands a packet of papers to Wellesley’s spymaster Scovell. He and Higgins snatch them up avidly and begin referring to code sheets and scribbling.
Must be nice to be able to read the enemy’s dispatches at a time like this, I’m thinking. I’m also reflecting on the former bearers of those messages, French couriers who are now probably lying dead in dusty ditches along lonely roads not far from here. My sympathies extend to those fallen messengers, for I myself was very recently a French courier and had many friends in that close-knit corps of riders. C’est la guerre, mes amis.
I turn again to watch the French advance up the road. Their artillery continues to pound, and puffs of shot and shell hit near our village. I look to the south and see the steeple of the local church, thinking it is probably making a fine target for the French gunners.
Sure enough, there is a high whistling sound and then a thud as a ball hits a building next to us, crumbling a wall. My traitorous knees start in to quivering. I hope no one notices.
As fine dust from the collapse of that building rains down upon us, the French columns come relentlessly on, and then the fog of war sets in for real . . .
“He’s trying to turn our left flank!” shouts Wellesley, squinting through the dust. “Signal to Acland and Bowes! Stop them!”
From what I can see, Anstruther’s brigade has just come out of hiding and is attacking the French columns in long lines of two rifles deep. Men, in all their military finery, are beginning to fall on both sides, lying like little tin soldiers on the ground. But they are not toys, no, they are not. They are poor boys who were once living and breathing young men, and now, in a flash, in a single horrible instant, they are not—they neither live nor breathe but rather lie still on the ground that they will soon be part of.
Good God, the slaughter is on!
The ranks of my fellow messengers are thinning, as each is called up to fly off with a message to one of the field commanders. As Ensign Connell mounts up, I give him a salute and a pat on his leg.
“Go, Tim, and Godspeed!”
He wheels and is gone.
There are signal men posted on the nearby roof, waving flags in prearranged patterns to transfer orders to those brigades that can see them.
“General Junot is sending brigades along the ridgeline to attack the village! There is a column attempting to enter the village on the left!” shouts an officer on the roof, a long glass to his eye.
“Contact Fane! Tell him of the situation and get men into the houses to defend the town! Goddammit to hell! Do it!” yells Wellesley.
Another messenger rides off and I see that I am the last one left, and will be so till one of the others returns from his mission. None such reappears, not yet, anyway.
Wellesley stands at the table, hands clenched behind him, looking out over the battle, his teeth clenched as well.
“Messenger!” he roars. “Get down to Colonel Robbe and tell him I want his dragoons up here NOW!”
He looks up and sees that the messenger is me. I get up on Isabella and reach down for the order.
“Good God, you again? Christ, what a war . . .” He looks about for a more suitable male messenger but finds none. “Well, just go on and do it, for God’s sake! And don’t fail, girl!”
I take the paper, cast him a level glance, wheel, and I am gone.
“Bernier is attacking the town!” I shout as I see Richard Allen riding toward me at the head of his troops, looking more stern and resolute than I have ever seen him. “Wellesley
wants you up there!” He pulls up, as do I, and I hand him the message. He reads it, then stuffs it into the front of his jacket.
“We already know that. All right, lads, let’s go,” he says, putting spurs to his horse. I see Sergeant Bailey and Private Archie MacDuff behind him, and Tommy Patton, Seamus McMann, too.
“Richard, I—”
“Jacky, you must go back to headquarters. Now!”
“But, Richard—”
“But nothing. Go back where you can do some good. The fighting in the town will be hand-to-hand, as nasty and dirty as it gets! It always is. And you are no good at that sort of thing! Now, go!”
With that, he whips out his sword and slaps Isabella on her rump with the flat of the blade. She starts, then takes off with me and I let her have her head for a bit, then turn her, to watch Richard Allen and his men thunder down a street and into the heart of Vimeiro, swords drawn and ready.
God, please watch over them! I pray, then guide Isabella back to the command post, as ordered.
Things there are in turmoil . . .
Wellesley has his glass to his eye. I suspect it has seldom been away from there.
“Here comes Kellermann with his Grenadiers. Look! They are veering to the east to avoid Anstruther’s Ninety-seventh. They’re going to the village . . . They’ve reached the church!”
I look in that direction and see the flash of bayonets and hear the shouts and cries of desperate men in hand-to-hand combat, and I know that Richard is in the middle of it. Oh, Lord!
Wellesley whips around and points his long glass north.
“And Solinac is trying to turn our flank again! But there’s Ferguson and his six thousand foot soldiers! That’s stopping them, by God! Good show!”
That flank secured, the General turns his attention back to the trouble in the village itself . . .
And in case you haven’t noticed, General, we are also in this village! whimpers my cowardly self as a shell explodes behind us, spooking the horses and causing a light dusting of white powder to rain down upon us.
“Messenger!” roars Wellesley. “Get over here!” He begins to write out something as one of the other messengers steps forward. “Take this to Comandante Montoya. Tell him to aid the defenders of the town!”
I think of Richard and his lads pinned down in the village, facing insurmountable odds and in the greatest need of help, and I step in front of the young horseman, snatch the note, and say, “I’ll take it, General. I know where he is. Montoya knows me and I will give him the order. He is probably illiterate, so these written words will do no good.”
Wellesley glares at me. Another shell explodes behind us. He considers and says, “Go, then, and do not fail.”
I leap into the saddle and head off in the direction of where I know Montoya’s forces lie hidden behind a ridge. As I go, I see Higgins look up. I give him a wave and I am gone.
I pound down the road and am rounding a curve as another shell goes off to the right of me. My bowels churn, but I’ve managed to hold my water thus far. Isabella starts but does not slack her speed—Good girl! Not too much farther! There!
I see, sheltered in a ravine, Montoya and his force of guerrillas. There are about a hundred of them, and they are mounted and ready to go.
“Comandante Montoya! General Wellesley desires that you ride into Vimeiro to aid the defenders there!”
Montoya grins widely, exposing his strong white teeth. “Naturalmente, Tenente. Lead on.”
I wheel Isabella about and gallop back the way I came, with one hundred very irregular but very determined fighters behind me.
Soon, the roofs and spires of the town appear and Montoya comes up to ride by my side.
“You see the church steeple?” I shout, pointing. “That’s where the fighting is the fiercest!”
“And that is where we will go, Tenente,” says Montoya, waving his band of guerrillas on. “I hope to see you again, menina!” He gives me a look I can only describe as lecherous, salutes, and surges on into the town.
I would follow, but the street is too narrow and I am stopped by a wall and must pull back and wait for the main force to enter before I can do anything.
What to do? Follow them in? Pull my puny sword and wave it about? Go back to Wellesley and await further orders? What?
Bombs fall and there are dull thuds and clouds of thrown-up earth when they land. I hear the horrid shrieks of the mindless metal rockets that fly overhead and I hear the screams of anguish torn from human throats when those uncaring missiles fall and do their awful damage.
No! The coward in me says, No! Go back, Jacky! Do as Richard says! Go back to Headquarters! But . . . I cannot do it. Allen and the lads are in there and I must go join them.
Deep breath, let it out, and I put my heels to Isabella’s flanks and down the narrow street we plunge, terrified girl on terrified horse.
I keep the church steeple in my sights as I gallop down one empty street and up another, and . . .
There they are!
I see our red-coated Dragoons lined up against a low wall, on the other side of which is a vast plain and on that plain is rank upon rank of French infantry marching relentlessly on toward us. Our men fire their muskets with military precision and the French fire back. Bullets whistle all about like angry bees, but oh-so-much-more-deadly than mere insects. A bee will sting, but a bullet will kill.
Lord Richard Allen is in the middle of his men, firing his Kentucky Long Rifle with deadly accuracy. He pulls the trigger and I look out and see a Frenchman in the first line pitch forward into the dust.
I drop down off Isabella and crouch next to Richard as he is reloading.
“Princess, godammit!” he growls, fixing me with a look of complete exasperation. “You shouldn’t be—”
“Too late, Richard!” I cry and duck my head. A rocket has hit the base of the steeple behind us. I turn to see it totter and fall into the street, blocking a quick way out up that road, anyway. A cloud of white dust from the destruction floats down over us all.
Pulling my pistols from my belts, I lean over the wall and point them at the French, aiming low, hoping to wound, rather than kill, but in the heat of battle, who knows where one’s deadly bullets fly—into the tough hide of a grizzled old veteran who grunts and pushes on, or into the tender heart of a young boy who lies down and quietly dies. In the fog of war, no one knows anything.
I pull both triggers and feel the pistols buck in my hands. Turning, I slide down, my back to the wall, to reload. Pull the white cartridge from my belt, bite the bullet out of the corner, and pour the powder down the barrel. Then spit the bullet down after it and pull the short ramrod from its bracket under the barrel and cram the leaden slug down all snug against the powder. The tiny percussion cap is pressed down on its nipple, and the pistol is loaded and ready.
As I load my other gun, I look up and down our line—our very thin red line—and see that Montoya has spread his men out on our left flank. Good man, I’m thinkin’ . . . Then I see one of ours cry out and fall backward onto the cobblestones to writhe in pain . . . and he is not the only one. Three others lie still and unmoving.
Who? Oh, God! No, Archie; not Seamus, not—
“Sergeant!” roars Allen. “Close up the rank!”
I turn again to fire my puny pistols, so small in all this mayhem, and see Sergeant Bailey directing men to fill the spots of the fallen.
The French are much closer now, perhaps only fifty yards away . . . now forty . . . now thirty . . .
Again, I fire, seeking only to wound, to stop that dread advance, but I know full well that those who press forward seek not to wound but to kill, with shot, shell, or bayonet . . . and in a few minutes, it will be hand to hand, and it will be with those cruel blades.
A bullet hits the top of the wall next to my face and ricochets off over my shoulder, throwing a shower of gritty dust into my eye. Yeouch!
“Keep your stupid head down, Jacky!” Richard yells over the din, shoving m
e below the wall. I rub at my eye to free it of the dirt. “Twentieth Dragoons . . . fix bayonets!” he bellows.
There is the rattle of metal on metal as, all along the line, Captain Allen’s order is obeyed. Across the field, the sun glints off the French bayonets as well and . . .
Oh, Lord, it’s gonna get nasty. Soon those cruel barrel-borne knives will be thrust into soft bodies to grate upon bone and life-blood will flow down the bayonets’ blood-gutters to spill upon the ground.
Twenty yards . . . now ten.
“Another volley, men!” shouts Allen, standing and leveling his rifle. “Let’s slow the bastards down! Lay on, lads, steady down! Steady now. Give it to ’em . . . Give it—”
I sense, rather than hear, the bullet that thuds into Richard Allen’s chest.
“Damn. Deuced bother . . . Sorry, Princess.” He gasps and then slumps against me.
Richard! No!
But yes, it is true, a much darker stain of crimson creeps across the front of his scarlet coat. His eyes are closed and he knows no more of this battle.
“Sergeant! Archie! Tommy!” I cry, wrapping my arms about Richard’s shoulders. “The Captain is down! Come help, boys, oh, please, come help me!”
But they cannot come, for the battle is too fierce and they must fight on or else all will be lost, all will be wounded, all will be dead.
I stagger to my feet.
We’ve got to get out of here, Richard, we do. There’s Isabella there . . . If I can get you on her we can get to . . .
But we can get to nothing.
Through all my fear, sorrow, and confusion, I hear the high whistling sound of an incoming shell. Then there is a flash and a scream and I hear and see no more.
All is the deep darkness and silence of the tomb . . .
Chapter 7
There is a great ball of fire in the sky and it burns my slowly opening eyes as I climb back into consciousness. Oh, God, let me be, please, let me alone, I hurt, I hurt . . .