by L. A. Meyer
"Vingt-et-un," I say, flipping over my ace. The others throw their cards in, and I am not discovered. The deal is mine.
As if on cue, Captain Bardot saunters over to check on my fortunes. He carries a glass of cognac and places it before me.
"Here, Bouvier, this will fortify you in the face of these formidable adversaries."
He puts his hand on my shoulder and grins impudently at Levesque, who growls back at him, "So, Bardot, have you adopted this puppy? It seems you could occupy yourself with grander things than with ... underage messenger boys."
Bardot's smile disappears from his face. I know the implied insinuation will not go unanswered if I don't do something. Damn!
I quickly take the glass of cognac and toss some of it back in my mouth and then make a great show of gasping and coughing, as if it were the first spirits I had ever tasted.
"Mon Dieu, how that burns! Oh, how can you stand to drink that stuff? Oh, God, that's ghastly!"
There is laughter all around the table at my boyish inexperience, but, thankfully, it defuses the potentially explosive situation and Bardot walks off.
It also gave me a chance to switch the decks of cards beneath the table.
I return the ace of spades back to my own deck and commence to deal, and I do not give up the deal for the rest of the night, to Levesque's absolute frustration and disgust. I intentionally lose some, but I win most and steadily thin down the pile of money that used to rest before him. The other players are soon wiped out and it comes down to Levesque and me. I especially delight in giving him close hands—totals of nineteen when I come up with twenty, or tantalizing him by dealing him a king and a deuce, and when he asks for a hit, busting him with a queen. Spank me, will you?
Others are now grouped around the table, watching the cardplay. As the night is winding down, I deal him his two cards, and me mine. He shows an ace of clubs up, and I show a six of diamonds. He looks at his hole card and exults, "Ha! Double down on aces!" and he flips over his other card. It is, indeed, the ace of spades.
In double down, when a player is dealt a pair in his first two cards, he may play each card separately and he may increase his bet to whatever he wishes. Double down in aces is a very good thing, for all you have to do is draw a face card on each and you have a double vingt-et-un.
Formidable...
Levesque divides his remaining money, which is still considerable, and puts a stack next to each of his aces. Then he smiles and says, "Deal, boy."
I place a nine of clubs on his first ace, making that add up to twenty, and he looks at my six of diamonds and nods. "I'll stay with that. Hit me on the other one."
On his other ace I deal out a three of hearts. That gives him fourteen and he does not smile on that one. "Another," he says.
I turn the next card and it is the deuce of clubs. He now has a total of sixteen.
I see him looking at my six of diamonds showing. I know he is thinking I probably have a face card down, and, if I did, he would lose on that half of the double down. He must take another card. "Hit me," he says.
I deal him another card and it is the five of hearts. He has twenty-one.
He leans back, smiling, and lights up another cigar. His friends gather about and clap him on the back. Bardot again comes up to stand behind me.
"So what have you got, boy?" asks Levesque, grinning through the smoke.
I flip over my hole card. It is a five of spades, giving me a total of eleven. A hush falls over the watching crowd. Levesque has lost his smile.
"I will take a hit, M'sieur," says I, turning over the next card in the deck and dealing myself, as I knew I would, the lovely queen of hearts.
"Vingt-et-un, Monsieur, I believe I win," I say, rising. "Pardon me, but I must go now and see to my men. Thank you for your kind instruction. Bonsoir."
I hear a low chuckle from Bardot behind me. "Messenger boy, indeed, eh, Major?"
Major Levesque stands in a cloud of cigar smoke and fixes me with a glare of the purest dislike. He turns and leaves the table, giving me ample time to, unobserved, switch back the decks of cards. I scoop up the money and leave.
Thank you, Yancy, once again.
Chapter 31
James Fletcher
Brattle Lane
London
Dear Jacky,
I came out of my dream yesterday, for good and ever, I hope. It was as if a breeze had come up and blown the clouds out of my mind, leaving it free and clear.
The next day I was able to dress and to stand up with little dizziness and was both shocked and amazed to see your Mr. Higgins come to call upon me. After graciously inquiring after my health, he told me of how he and the loyal crew on your schooner followed you across the ocean, till the Dauntless was taken. Seeing there was nothing more to be done, he directed the Nancy B to London, to see what might be done there.
Upon his arrival he made discreet inquiries into your whereabouts and was greatly alarmed to hear rumors of your grisly death, and then was just as greatly relieved to learn that those reports were not true. This he learned when he visited your orphanage and found out from the Reverend Alsop that, while your location is unknown, you are still among the living.
Higgins renewed his efforts on your behalf, and that is a great comfort to me, for I do not know of a more competent man.
Later on that same day, I received yet another visitor.
"Joseph!" I exclaim upon seeing a very grim Mr. Jared enter the drawing room where I sat writing this very letter. "How very good to see you! Come, have a glass of wine and something to eat."
"Got anything stronger, Mr. Fletcher?" he growls, looking over at the crystal decanters resting on the sideboard.
"Certainly," I say and pour out two generous libations of some rather nice Scotch whisky. I hand one to him and lift my own glass. "To the poor old Wolverine! We've both seen a lot of water under our various keels since then, eh?"
He gives me an appraising look, clinks his glass to mine, and then tosses back his whisky, neat.
"You seem pretty cheerful, Mr. Fletcher, considering..."
Considering what?...and then it comes to me ... Oh, my God, he does not know! What the poor man must have been going through...
Of course he would not know, for who would have told him? Not British Intelligence, not Dr. Sebastian, a member of the same organization, not anybody.
I think about what promises I have made to others in this regard.... I vaguely remember being sworn to silence when I was groggy with my wound. Does that count? I decide it does not count. To hell with it—this man cannot live with what he thinks he has seen.
"Sit down in that chair, Mr. Jared, and I will tell you something," I say as I take his glass to refill it and hand it back to him. I have taken only the merest sip of mine. As he seats himself, I cross the room to pick up a Bible that I know rests on a shelf. "Put your right hand on that book and swear on your honor as an officer and a gentleman that you will never divulge to another soul what I am about to say."
He transfers his glass to his left hand and places the other on the Bible. "I do so swear," he says, seemingly disinterested in anything I might have to say, and is about to bring the glass to his lips again. You are so very hard on your friends, Jacky.
"I know that you have witnessed a horror that is very hard for you to bear, Joseph Jared, so I tell you this: She is not yet dead."
He puts down his glass and gapes at me in wonder.
"What?"
"The execution was an elaborate sham, designed to get her out of France so that she could be forced to work for British Intelligence."
"But I saw..."
"What you saw was another girl, similar to her in size and description, being beheaded in her place."
His hand shakes as he puts his glass on the table next to him, and then a smile works its way across Joseph Jared's rugged features. "She yet lives..."
"I assure you it is true. She sat by my bedside not a fortnight ago, very much alive."
He puts the glass once more to his lips, this time much more relaxed. He takes a sip and then looks off into the distance. "Ah, Puss ... maybe you do have nine lives."
"I am glad I was unconscious at the time," I say, to interrupt what I assume is his fond reverie. "For I'm sure I would have gone quite mad when that atrocious deed was done and the poor girl's head was lifted and shown to the disbelieving eyes of the prisoners. I cannot imagine what you went through when you beheld the severed head and thought it was hers."
He is silent and I know he is savoring the glad news I have just given him. At length he brings his eyes back on me and says, "Quite simply, I went insane. I knocked down two guards, swore I would kill every living Frenchman I could lay my hands on, then I was beaten senseless and hauled out to the whipping post and given twenty lashes. All of which stopped my rash actions, you may be sure, but did not calm my raging mind."
He pauses, and then goes on. "The sailors in the other wing of the jail also rioted, tearing apart their section of the prison and very nearly overwhelming the guards. When the uprising was quelled, ten sailors, who were pointed out as ringleaders, were taken out and given fifty lashes each. I regret to say that Jacky's friend Jones was one of them. To his credit, he took it well. However, I am glad to report, that he, too, for some reason, was also exchanged when I was. Rare for a common seaman to be treated such. I reckon the French prison warden was glad to get rid of both of us."
"It was not the French, Mr. Jared, who accomplished that. It was Miss Faber—the repatriation of all of us was part of the bargain she made with people I do not know and could not tell you about even if I did know."
"Ah. So very like Puss to watch out for her friends," he says without further comment.
Yes. I am trying to control myself in talking to this man who, I believe, has had much closer contact with you than I ever had. Steady, boy, steady. I realize that others have claims upon your affections, Jacky, and I must get used to that.
"You know, Mr. Fletcher, that I have been assigned to HMS Lorelei, and we sail tomorrow..."
Good. Be gone with you.
"...and Seaman Jones has also been billeted on that ship. May I break the vow that I just made and hint to him that she still lives? Apparently they are dear friends, and I know he took her supposed death very hard. For his fifty lashes and all..."
Ah, Davy, for all your spittin and scrapping with Jacky there in the Dolphin's foretop—"If you two don't stop yer goddam fightin we'll throw both of yiz over the side, we will"—still you love her, too.
"Yes, you may," I say and smile. "Have him swear on his tattoo, and he will not break that promise."
I put my fist on my own Brotherhood mark. "We all grew up together as ship's boys on the Dolphin, and share the same mark upon our skin."
"I knew about her and Jones, but not about you."
"'Tis true. I have the same tattoo right here on my hip. The same as the one she wears and which, perhaps, you have seen?"
"I might have glimpsed it, in passing," he says, his eyes hooded. He rises and picks up his hat.
I want to kill him.
"She says she is promised to you, Fletcher," he says, looking me directly in the eye. "In marriage and all. Is that true?"
"I have been so honored," I reply, with a slight bow. "But who knows? Her mind might change ... the fortunes of war, and all..."
"Who knows, indeed, but then, all is fair in love and war, is it not?" says he, going to the door. "You have given me the greatest of news, and I thank you for that, but now I must report to my ship."
"I wish you great good luck in your new post, Joseph," I say, as I let him out.
"And you, too, James. And if you should see our Puss-in-Boots again, please tender my best regards."
He puts on his Master's hat and salutes, and I bow in return.
But deep down in my throat rumbles a low feral grrrrrowl.
Attempting to be civil, I am,
Yr Most Obedient, and etc....
Jaimy
Chapter 32
"Is this not better, Laurent?" I ask, surveying our new line of tents, smartly pitched and lined up in a neat row. I do like things neat.
"Yes, Sir, it is. We feel much better for it."
I look up at him. He stands easy, with his hand on his musket. As each day passes, I feel more and more that this man should be the sergeant rather than Boule. Not that Boule is not a good man, he is, but he is also a bit of a bumbler. The men call him Papa Boule to his face, but out of affection, not malice. I find myself doing the same.
"When we first shot at that tree, one of you hit it. I suspect it was you."
He nods, his long hair swaying under his shako.
"How did you learn to shoot?"
He smiles. "Poaching, Sir. On Major Levesque's estate."
Hmmm. A rascal after my own heart. "We will be on the march soon, Laurent. I am going to ask the Colonel to make you Corporal."
"Thank you, Sir."
"I shall go see him now. Help Papa Boule form up the men for morning drill."
"Oui, M'sieur."
General Charpentier is dictating some orders to Monsieur Dupont when the General notices me approaching and remarks, "You did well with those men."
"Thank you, mon Général."
He leans toward his secretary. "What shall we make him then? We have no rank of 'Cadet.'"
"Sous-Lieutenant is our lowest officer rank, Sir."
"Very well. Make him that," replies General Charpentier to Monsieur Dupont. To me he says, "You shall draw your pay as a Second Lieutenant."
"Again, my thanks, Sir. And one more thing, if I might. My squad lacks a corporal and I have a man, Private Laurent, in mind. He has proven himself steady and able."
"Very well, do that. If he is not up to the task, that stripe will come off fast enough. We reward those who—"
He does not finish. A galloper charges through the camp and pulls up in front of us.
"L'Empereur! He is coming now! L'Empereur!" he shouts, and then rides off to spread the word further.
Napoléon Bonaparte himself ... Mon Dieu!
The place explodes into frenzied activity. I salute and turn away to prepare my boys, but no one notices me in the uproar.
I pound back to my squad.
"Clodhoppers! Form the Line! The Emperor is coming!"
They jump to and I walk the Line to see that all is right, the proper spacing between, the uniforms neat, the shakos on square.
"Sergeant Boule. You will be at this end. Corporal Laurent at the far end ... yes, you have been made Corporal, by General Charpentier himself. Get your stripes from the Quartermaster later and sew them on. Shall we have a cheer for Corporal Laurent, lads?"
They do it with all their might, and when they are done, I step out in front of them. They stand at Attention, their muskets on their right shoulders.
"Bouvier's Own Clodhoppers ... Parade ... Rest!"
The heels go twelve inches apart and the gun butts thud into the ground next to their right feet.
"Good. Now, when, and if, the Emperor's carriage goes by here, I will say 'Order Arms' and you will come to Attention and bring your musket up before you like this"—and I take Papa Boule's musket from him and hold it rigidly in front of me, two inches from my nose, the barrel pointed straight up, the butt against my belly. "Do you have that? Answer."
"Yes, Sir!"
"Good. Let's try it. Bouvier's Own Clodhoppers ... Order ... Arms!"
And they do it reasonably well. It ain't the Royal English Horse Guards, but it will do.
I get out, front and center. "Dufour, you will stand by me, with your sticks at the ready, but you will not use them unless I tell you to. Right?"
He nods and comes to my side. I turn to face my squad.
"Now that the Emperor is here, you know that we will be marching very soon. I shall march with you till then, but when it comes to the actual battle, I will not be there." I feel my drummer boy stiffen at this
news. "Non. I am assigned as a galloper, a messenger on horseback, conveying orders back and forth between the commanders. Your officer will be Captain Bardot. I have met him, and taken bread with him. He is a good man and will do his best by you. Follow the lead of Sergeant Boule and Corporal Laurent and you will be well led. That is all. Now we wait." I turn my back on them and face the road in front and go to Parade Rest myself, my hands clasped behind me, my sword still in its scabbard.
We do not wait too awfully long. Soon there is a great tumult down below us to the south. I see a cloud of dust, and I know he will come right by us.
"Steady, boys," I say, as I see the cloud approach. Soon a platoon of Cuirassiers march by, with their brass breastplates and high helmets with the mares' tails hanging down behind. Then a troop of the Light Cavalry, splendid in their red, green, and gold Hussar uniforms, with ... oh, my God, there's Jean-Paul among them! I lift my sword in salute and he sees me and our eyes lock, but we give no other sign of recognition. Later, Jean-Paul, I think to myself, and I am sure he thinks the same. He is looking very fine.
Then come the Lancers, then the Horse Grenadiers, then the Old Imperial Guard, itself, the Supreme Elite, the crème de la crème, the best soldiers in the entire world, wearing their tall bearskin hats decorated with a gold plate, red plumes, and white cords. The best in the world and they know it. The best in the world ... so far.
And then it comes. A single white carriage drawn by two horses. It draws up close to us and I say, "Clodhoppers ... Order Arms!"
The muskets come up, the eyes are cased, and the carriage draws up abreast of us and I see the acanthus wreath circling the letter N and above it the Imperial Eagle.
I whip out my sword and put the hilt to my face and then bring the blade down sharply to point next to my right foot.
The man in the carriage looks out the window and catches my eye and nods, two of his fingers to his forehead in a salute.
It is him. Without doubt.
The carriage moves on and, unaccountably, tears begin to pour out of my eyes. I look to Denis and see his face is equally covered with tears.