My Bonny Light Horseman

by L. A. Meyer

  What I do know is that if I fail to deliver the message, the Prussians, after they dispose of Ney, will charge over that low ridge, and the poor Clodhoppers will be slaughtered ... my men will be butchered.

  No. I cannot let that happen. Call me a traitor, if you must, but I will deliver the message.

  I spur on Mathilde to go faster. Come on, girl, give me your best now.

  Often Murat and his Reserve Cavalry are referred to as Napoléon's Bloodhounds because of their ferocity in tracking down and harassing the Emperor's enemies, who are generally skirmishing on the edges of the infantry. This time, however, the cavalry must charge straight down the center, and it's gonna be bloody.

  Murat had his fourteen thousand men arrayed as a blunt wedge, with himself at the point, with three ranks of heavy cavalry behind and the Light Cavalry on either side. I spot Jean-Paul as I ride up, and I know he sees me, for he lightly fingers my scarf, which he wears about his neck. Murat, the brave idiot, will lead the charge himself with his staff beside him. And there, of course, as a member of that staff, is Randall Trevelyne.

  I catch his eye and he mine as I pull up to Murat. Oh, Randall, you always wanted to see what it was like and you're gonna find out right now, and I hope with all my heart that you live through it, but this is gonna be such awful, horrible carnage, I just know it!

  I whip out the Imperial Seal and hand it to him. "From l'Empereur! Marshal Ney has charged the Prussian line and will be trapped without your help! Lannes and Augereau have been ordered to attack on your flanks! You must attack up the center! Now!"

  Murat calmly takes the seal from me and then hands it back. "Take this and put it back in your coat. I have many of these, and it will be something for you to show your grandchildren." There is a good breeze now, and it blows his curly hair about his face. He smiles. "Ney has jumped the gun, eh? I thought he might do such a thing someday. He is brave, but he is also a fool." He shakes his head. "Well, we shall see if we can save his foolish derrière."

  I thrust the waxed seal back in my jacket and prepare to take myself off, but such is not to be.

  "We ride to glory," says Murat, preparing to give the orders, "and you, young Bouvier, shall ride by my side, for I will need a messenger to inform the Emperor of our great victory when the battle is won! There will be glory enough for all!"

  What? Glory? I think, stricken and starting to shake. Just what I wanted. To die a hero for France. If I had planned to slink off to the side and wait this thing out in relative safety, I was dead wrong in thinking that, for it is not going to happen. I'm caught up in it now and I know there is no escape. Ninety thousand Frenchmen on this plain ... and Jean-Paul ... and Randall ... and my Clodhoppers ... and me ... and one hundred thousand Prussians over there. Oh, Lord, what am I doing here?

  "CAVALERIE...," bellows Murat, and his voice rolls across the still eerily silent battlefield. The man next to us has a guidon, a regimental flag, and he thrusts the staff straight up, so all of the fourteen thousand Reserve Cavalry can see, and all down the line I can hear the generals, in charge of their regiments, and then the colonels with their companies, echoing the preparatory command, and so the impending order is passed down to the ranks. "SLOW ... MARCH!" Beside Murat is a trumpeter who trills out a series of notes, and we all kick up our mounts and move forward as a mass. I can see the Fusilier columns of Lannes and Augereau moving up beside us as we go, twenty-two thousand in Lannes's V Corps, twenty thousand with Augereau's VII Corps.

  "DRAW...," shouts Murat, and the guidon goes back up and the echoing calls go out again. "...SWORDS!" The flagstaff whips down and fourteen thousand sabers come hissing out of their scabbards. With a barely suppressed sob, mine comes out, too. Poor, pathetic little pig sticker ... and poor, pitiful little Jacky Faber, whiner, deceiver, and abject coward who is about to charge into the ranks of one hundred thousand Prussians at the side of Marshal Murat.

  "IN ORDER OF RANKS ... ADVANCE..." Murat raises his sword high above his head and fourteen thousand horses and their riders change from the trot to the gallop and the plain thunders with the sound of their hooves as they surge forward.

  "POUR LA FRANCE ... CHARGE!"

  And we gallop toward the waiting Prussians, swords on high.

  Their artillery, which up till now has been mostly silent, begins to spit out flame and smoke and death, and, dimly, I hear our own cannons dealing out the same. I hear screams of horses and men both as the shells slam into us on either side, but we keep driving on. Terrified beyond thought, I see the ranks of the Prussians getting closer and closer, and I sense, rather than see, someone beside me, but I know it is Randall and Oh, Randall, we are surely far from Dovecote now!

  The part of my mind that is still working says to me, Rein in a bit, girl! Fall back to the second rank! No one will think less of you for it! And I start to do it, pulling back on the reins ever so slightly to let the first rank pass me by. I'm sorry, Randall, you will see me for the coward I really am, but I don't care. I just want us all out of this. I just—

  But I don't get to fade back at all. Up ahead, I can see a platoon of Prussian Fusiliers raising their muskets and pointing them at me and Oh, God, no! and they fire and my shako is torn off my head, to dangle by the chin strap at my neck, but no bullet thuds into me thank you, God! but that ain't the end of it, oh, no, 'cause Mathilde screams as one hits her on her left flank and she, in pain like she has never felt before, tears off straight for the Prussian lines. No, Mathilde, not that way! The other way! but I can't turn her head, no, she won't listen, and so, with my sword still held up, I pull out ahead of Murat's cavalry, screeching at the top of my lungs in absolute and complete terror, and plunge through the Prussians' first rank of soldiers.

  Having shot off their first round, the Prussian Fusiliers are hurriedly reloading as I burst into their midst, and one of them has the presence of mind, when he sees me there among them, to reverse his hold on his musket and swing it like a club at my head. I lift my sword to deflect it, but I do not have the strength to turn the heavy musket butt and it hits me and I am knocked sideways out of my saddle.

  My back is on the ground and I look up to see the Prussian soldier, his musket again turned in his hands so to present not the butt with which he had knocked me out of the saddle but the gleaming bayonet at the other end. He lifts it and prepares to plunge it into my helpless gut as I put my hands up in a fruitless effort to ward off the descent of that awful blade that will end my life ... please, no!... but I know it ain't gonna serve ... oh, God, help me, please! ... and then the soldier's neck spouts a fountain of blood as a saber comes down upon him. Randall? You? ... and then the rest of the Cavalry comes roaring through and there are more shouts and shrieks of pain and agony and cries for mercy, but there is little of that to be had and then...

  CRASH!

  There is a shattering blast of an artillery shell right next to me, and for a moment I know nothing but even more confusion and terror. Then I come to my senses enough to know that my right foot is caught in my stirrup as Mathilde, still crazed, is running away, and I am being dragged across the ground. I reach up to try to get my foot loose, but it's wedged in there and I can't ... I can't...

  And then my head bounces against something hard and I can't see ... I can't hear ... I can't ... and then comes an almost welcome, warm, velvety...

  Darkness.

  Chapter 43

  "Is she dead?"

  "No. Not yet, anyway. I can hear her heart beating." Through the pain that pulsates through my head like the tolling of a cathedral bell, I can tell that a head is laid on my chest. "And stop calling the lieutenant she, Dufour, you stupid little blabbermouth! You'll get her ... him ... in trouble!"

  I manage a groan. Oooh, my poor head!

  "Look! She's comin' around."

  I open my eyes and see that it is Corporal Laurent's ear that has been pressed to my breastbone to listen for signs of life.

  "Lieutenant Bouvier ... Can you hear me?"

&nb
sp; "Yes ... I can, Laurent. Thank you. Please ... help me up."

  I feel his strong arm slide under my shoulders and he pulls me up such that I might sit to look about me, and dazed though I am, I realize I am in the back of the Clodhoppers' wagon, with Papa Boule up forward on the reins and the men grouped about me while Dufour is holding my hand and...

  ...and there are two still forms next to me, their faces covered with their uniform jackets.

  "Who?" I ask, dreading the answer.

  "Dubois and Vedel," says Laurent. "A shell exploded next to them. They died instantly. Chaisson was wounded."

  Oh, God, please take them to you, for they were good boys ... And spare Chaisson, if you can, for he is a good boy, too.

  I rub my eyes as I look out over the land, and all I can see is mile upon mile of dead soldiers lying still on the ground. Some French, but many, many more Prussian. It is so curiously quiet. I can even hear birds sing, and it seems so strange to hear them trilling on this killing field.

  "The engineers are digging trenches for the dead, over there," remarks Laurent, pointing.

  I look over to see men toiling at shovels and picks and others stripping the dead of their jackets and weapons and tossing their bodies into the end of the trench as fast as it can be dug.

  "We were going to take ours over there, too," says Laurent. "Do you so order?"

  "Non," I say, digging into my pocket for some coins. "Our men shall not be buried in a common grave. Dufour, take this money and find us a pick and shovel, then get back here as fast as you can."

  The boy takes the coins and dashes off. I heave myself up to stand next to the wagon. I am bruised and scratched but otherwise unhurt, my good stout Hussar jacket having taken the brunt of most of the punishment. I button it back up—Laurent had unbuttoned it to listen to evidence of my beating heart—and I lean back against the wagon, take a deep breath, and let it out, and yes, the heart still does beat.

  While we wait for his return, I note with gladness that Mathilde is tied to the back of our wagon and has found some grass to graze upon. I shall have to look after her wound. Poor baby, I am so hard on my friends...

  I ask, "So where is Chaisson?"

  "In that hospital tent over there," says Laurent.

  He does not have to point it out. I hear the screams, and I know that ruined arms and legs are being hacked off in generally vain attempts to save the lives of their owners, but the efforts must be made. Some will live, most will not.

  Dufour comes back panting with a pick and shovel. "They were only too glad to give them up, Miss ... M'sieur."

  "Thank you, Denis," I say. There is a nice shady spot over there by that tree. "Dig the graves there. Take off their jackets and their shakos, so they might be given to their families."

  The preparations are made and the pick and shovel dig down into the earth.

  Standing by, I'm startled to hear a pistol shot from over the crest of a nearby hill. One ... then another. I give Laurent a questioning look and he goes to investigate. I thought this damned battle was over...

  He comes back and says, "There is an officer down there, drunk ... shooting at the scavengers. I think you might know him, Lieutenant. He came upon us a while ago when we were loading you onto the wagon. I believe he thought we were detailed to pick up the dead and that you were one of them. He looked at you, saluted, and galloped off."

  Ah, yes, the scavengers, robbers of the dead, who creep out from the shadows after every battle since David met Goliath on the field of Elah, to strip the honored dead of their belongings as they lie silent on the ground.

  I leave the Clodhoppers to their sad task and run over the low hill. I see an officer dressed in the uniform of the Light Cavalry standing there, pistol raised. In his other hand he holds a bottle. I slide down the embankment as he fires off another round.

  "Take that, you filthy bastards!"

  I step in front of him.

  "Randall. Stop it. You are still alive. You should be glad of it. Now stop acting the fool."

  He looks at me in astonishment and then throws back his head and laughs. "So. The cat really does have nine lives. How many have you used up so far, Jacky?"

  "Why are you here, Randall, and not with Murat?"

  "Ah. Well, I was sent off to deliver the news of the Marshal's victory to the Emperor. It seems that Murat had lost his chosen messenger in the ah ... scuffle, shall we say?"

  "You must get back to Murat's staff. Do you want to have survived the war only to be shot for desertion?"

  "Let 'em wait. Let 'em shoot me, for all that. The war's over, anyway," he says. "Look! There's another one of those dirty vultures!" He fires off a shot, and I see a man scurry back into the woods. "Run, you piece of merde!" he shouts, and then reloads.

  "Randall, please! You must take control of yourself! Please! For me, if nothing else!" I plead, clasping my hands together and beginning to cry. "This is war! What the hell did you expect?"

  Randall goes quiet and looks about him. Grave trenches are being dug on this side of the hill, too, and men are hauling the dead into long lines and getting them ready to go into the ditch.

  "I did not expect this," says Randall. "I expected... honor ... glory ... a chance to test myself. Not this ... not this ... slaughterhouse."

  "You acquitted yourself with honor, Randall, you must know that. You saved my life today. If you had not done that, my body would be one of those being dumped into that ditch."

  He looks off. "You know, for all my swaggering about and dueling with the lads back at college, that was the first man I ever killed. All the other nonsense was just boys' games we played, thinking ourselves men." He looks down at his hands. "I killed many more than just that one this day, though. We hounded them and ran them down, then we killed them. We slashed at them and shot them with our pistols. Our lancers ran them through with their spears. Our cannon blasted them to bloody pieces. We killed them as they tried to stand and fight, and we killed them when they tried to run. We just ... killed them."

  He is silent for a while, then he lifts the bottle again. "Here, have a drink. Drink to love and war and honor and glory and all that."

  I uncork it and smell it—it is very strong brandy.

  I take it and say, "To love and to peace and to no more war." I upend it and knowingly break my vow, thinking it better to take a small taste to seal the truth of what I have just so devoutly wished for, and then I toss the half-full bottle against a rock, where it shatters. "You must be presentable when you report back to Murat. You know that."

  He says nothing and then chuckles. "Oh, the ever-so-right, ever-so-bright, ever-so-clever Jacky Faber, Hero of the Great Race at Dovecote Downs, Hero of Trafalgar, Savior of the Bloodhound, Hero of the Battle of Jena, tells me to be ... presentable."

  "Come on, Randall. None of that is true, and you know it."

  "You led the charge today, you can't deny it. It is the talk of all the camps. There you were, out in front of us all, waving your sword above your head and screaming for Prussian blood just like any Viking Valkyrie."

  "I didn't lead anything. My horse ran away with me. I was screaming in terror."

  "That is not how the stories will be told."

  "I can't help that."

  He sighs and goes on. "Dovecote seems so very far away, doesn't it, Jacky? Never thought I'd say that I miss the place, but I do."

  "So do I, Randall."

  Again a scavenger creeps out of the woods, and once more Randall levels his pistol.

  "Randall, don't. It won't help anything."

  He aims carefully, but he does not fire. He lowers the gun.

  "You are right. The dead are dead and they do not care." He stands still for a while, his pistol pointed at the ground. "You know, Jacky, when I was at Napoléon's headquarters today, I learned that we lost five thousand men and the Prussians lost twenty-five thousand. Thirty thousand men... think of that ... thirty thousand..."

  There are corpses strewn all across the plai
n, and there are bodies that lie close to Randall and me. He gazes down at one of them, a young Prussian soldier whose lifeless face is pressed into the dust next to the road. "He was hardly more than a boy."

  "Aye. His mother probably knitted his socks for him before he left home."

  Randall nods and puts his pistol into its holster. He goes to his horse, which is tethered to a tree nearby, and takes up the reins. I follow him over.

  "I will do my duty, and I'll follow Murat to the end of this campaign, and then I will give up my commission and return to Dovecote. If you get there before I do, you may tell them that. A kiss, Jacky, and good-bye."

  He leans down to take the kiss, and then swings into the saddle. He spurs his mount to a trot and rides off. I watch him till he is out of sight.

  Good-bye, Randall. I hope we'll meet again, and in a better place than this.

  I return to my men and see that things are ready. The bodies of Dubois and Vedel are laid in the grave, I say the words, and the dirt is put over them.

  "Now," I say, brushing back the tears, "let us see to Chaisson."

  My remaining Clodhoppers and I walk toward the hospital tent, followed by Papa Boule in the wagon, and as I go I wonder, Jean-Paul, what has become of you? Where are you now? I offer up a quick prayer and then duck my head to go into Hell on earth.

  Amongst the dead and dying, amid the shrieking and the quiet, we find Chaisson and are glad to discover that his wounds are minor, and if infection does not set in, he should recover completely. I give him a pat on his shoulder and compliment him on his bravery and hope that he is comfortable. In fact, the doctors demand we haul him out of there to make room for others in more need. We do it and get Chaisson out to the wagon, and then I go back in to see if I can find word of Jean-Paul ... but it is not him that I find.