My Bonny Light Horseman: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, in Love and War

by L. A. Meyer

  "Yes, Sir, I am," I say, as calm as I can manage. "If you are not afraid. If you are afraid, you will keep your damned mouth shut as regards me and my men!"

  He considers this and then throws his head back and laughs till tears trickle from his eyes. Recovering himself, he flings his cigar off to the side and then lunges forward, grabbing me by the neck, catching me by surprise before I can jump back out of reach.

  "We in the Guard do not fight boys!" he snarls, bringing my face up to his so I can smell the tobacco and the herring he had for breakfast on his breath. "Just what do we do with insolent boys in the Guards, Lieutenant Depardieu?"

  "I don't know, Sir?" asks the lieutenant. "Shoot them?"

  "No, Sir, what we do is spank them!"

  With that the brute sits back down in his chair, bends me across his knee, lifts his open hand, and then brings it down hard on my rump.

  Yeeeooow!

  I start to wriggle and struggle, but I know it will do no good. What I do is tighten my buttocks so I don't present too girlish a tail and I grit my teeth and I take it. I do not cry out. I just endure it.

  After he gives me twelve, he throws me over into the dust. He holds his arms up to his friends and accepts their applause and reaches for another cigar and calls for a drink.

  "Hot work, that! Let's have a drink, men!"

  Spanked! In front of everybody! Spanked like a child! This cannot stand, else I am lost!

  He almost makes it back to his chair before I am up with my sword drawn with the point at his throat.

  "If you will not meet me on the Field of Honor, coward, then you will fight me right now. En garde!"

  "What? You speak to me thus?" He gets to his feet and goes for his sword. "You go to Hell, boy!"

  "I will probably go to Hell, Sir, but not just yet, and I do not think it will be you who puts me there, since you can't seem to even get your sorry sword out of its scabbard!"

  Major Levesque roars out something unintelligible and his sword flies out, goes over his head, and sweeps down at me.

  I manage to just parry it and skip back out of the way, my sword held in Fourth Position, waiting for his next attack.

  "Stop!" shouts General Charpentier from his table. He is convulsed with laughter. "Stop it, I say. Good sport all around, but I order you to stop. Gentlemen, this is our fiery new messenger from the United States, Cadet Jacques Bouvier. They must grow them very fierce over there, n'est-ce pas?"

  "He is lucky he is not a dead cadet," mutters Major Levesque.

  I lift my sword again and put the point on a level between our eyes.

  "I told you to stop it, Cadet," warns General Charpentier, no longer laughing. "You will now apologize to Major Levesque."

  I really had no intention of actually fighting him, as I know he would have killed me in another instant. But it worked out. They saw it, everybody saw it, and my men saw it. And it was good.

  I lift the hilt on my sword to my mouth in salute to the General, and then to Major Levesque.

  "I am sorry if I gave offense, Sir."

  "Humph!" says Major Levesque, slamming his sword back into its sheath and sitting down at his table again. "Deal," he says, to the others, and turns away to again play at cards, ignoring me.

  I do an about-face and go back to my men, my face still reddened with the humiliation of the beating. One of them, Laurent, seeing my burning face, speaks out of turn.

  "Do not worry about it, Sir. You stood up for us. We saw that. Everybody saw that."

  I hear someone come up behind me. It is the Captain who had sat at Levesque's table. He claps me on the back. "Well done, Sir. I am Captain Bardot. Come take some breakfast with me. The Officers' Mess is right over there. I hope you will be able to ... ahem ... to sit down and tell us something of America."

  And so the job was done. I am now a member of the officer corps.

  The men are better turned out now—uniforms fit, boots are on and shined, and each man has a musket on his shoulder. Sergeant Boule has them back in line.

  The breakfast was excellent and Captain Bardot's company proved most kind. I was introduced to the other officers of the Sixteenth and, I believe, well received. Now we shall have a bit of Inspection and then on to the drill.

  Each of the men wears a heavy felt white shako for head covering, as well as white pants with knee-high black gaiters, and a blue coat with white lapels and tails trimmed in red worn over a white vest. Over it all are two crossed white belts that hold a rucksack to house the soldier's personal gear, if he has any. On top of that sits his bedroll wrapped up in his blue gray greatcoat, and below it hangs his bayonet on a hook, as well as a cartridge pouch. This, on each of my Clodhoppers, hangs empty.

  I walk up to each of them, do a left face, look the man over, say nothing, do a right face, step to the next man, do the same thing again, and so on down the line, till I come to my drummer, Denis Dufour. He is now in a uniform similar to the others, except that his coat is orange. Drummers and other unarmed men wear different colored uniforms so that enemy soldiers, if they are inclined to show mercy, will not intentionally shoot those without weapons. The English do the same. Sometimes it works.

  "Well, Drummer Dufour, you are smartly turned out," I remark. "If your girl back home were to be here now, you would not lack for kisses."

  He has his drum strapped to his waist and holds his drumsticks in his hands. He blushes mightily at what I say, but he is pleased, I think.

  I step out in front of the others.

  "The next time I hold Inspection, I will have something to say to each of you. For now, I will only say that you all look ... acceptable. But I will expect better. Tomorrow I'm ordering all of you to shave before breakfast. You may grow your mustaches, if you wish, as it is said the Emperor likes them on his men. I require you to be clean and your gear in good order. Is that clear? Good. Now we shall drill."

  I walk back and forth in front of them, my hands clasped behind my back, and intone, as a teacher would, "As Fusiliers, there will be various formations you will be told to get yourselves into. You are now standing in the formation that is called the Line. Simple enough, isn't it? All you have to do is remember the man to the right and to the left of you, and you will form up correctly. This formation is effective when you are facing skirmishers, or attacking a line of artillery. I tell you this in passing so you will know, but your officers will order you into these various formations as suits the conditions of battle. You do not have to think about it, you just do it."

  Another pause, as I collect my thoughts, then, "We will now form the Square. Clodhoppers ... ready ... About-Face!"

  The thing is accomplished, though Michaud's musket barrel knocks off Pannetier's shako as they turn about, but he recovers quickly.

  "Three steps Forward March!"

  They manage to do that without further disaster.

  "About-Face!" Again it is done and they are facing me again.

  "First Rank, Guerrette, Chaisson, Dubois, and Pannetier. Move up to the line." The line I drew yesterday is still faintly visible, and the men go up and put their toes upon it. Good. "Now Michaud, Bertrand, Lambert, and Bouchard, line up behind them, and the rest of you behind them.

  "You see the wisdom of it? The shorter men are up front and the taller behind. When it comes to a battle, you will be shooting over each other's heads, do you see? This formation is very effective against cavalry, and remember, good infantry always beats good cavalry. Hannibal knew it, Caesar knew it, and the Emperor knows it, too."

  They haven't got the foggiest idea of what I am talking about, so I stop talking history. "Bien. We will now drill in this formation. Sixteenth Fusiliers, Bouvier's Own, Forward ... March!"

  And we drill and we drill. By the Left Flank, March! By the Right Flank, March! Company, Halt! Right Face! Forward March!

  We drill and we march over hill and down dale. I take them far away from the main encampment so they are not further laughed at. Hours and hours of it, till I know they
hate me to their very marrow. We drill all morning and well into the afternoon.

  Since I'm a sailor, no one would expect me to know very much about land maneuvers, but they'd be mistaken. While it's a fact that I was not specifically trained in military movement, I did manage to pick up most of my knowledge of land tactics from watching Randall Trevelyne drill his militia troops back in Quincy. Of course, it's also true that most of the time I was there, I delighted in making raucous fun of him as he marched his tangle-footed troops about. Sometimes I even hoisted a broomstick over my own shoulder and marched right along with them. I did soak up a lot, though, certainly enough to get along here. And I do know how to load and fire a gun, but I did not learn that on land—I was drilled in that by my very able Master-at-Arms, Peter Drake, back when I commanded the Wolverine. And as for the rest of it, did I not see our Royal Marines drill every day when I was aboard a King's ship? I certainly did.

  At noon, we march back into the encampment in good order to see if we can get something to eat and maybe get some powder.

  Once again, I am back in front of General Charpentier, heels together, chin up, shako held under my left arm.

  "I believe they are ready to fire their muskets, Sir."

  The General looks at me closely. "I did see you up on that hill marching them about." There is a long glass next to him on his table. I thought this morning that I might have caught sight of a reflected glint from something like a long glass. "You think they will not hurt themselves? We can keep them digging latrines and graves, you know."

  "No, Sir, they will acquit themselves well as soldiers. That is what they came here for," I say, "and it is said that we ship out ... er ... march out in three days, so I do not have much time with them."

  "Your information is good, Cadet. Very well, Monsieur Dupont, issue the cartridges."

  "Here is the Musket Drill," I say, holding up a white paper cartridge in front of my Clodhoppers, their bellies full and newly marched back out onto a far field. "This is called a cartridge. You each have one in your hand. If you feel it, you will discover that it has a hard, round thing at one end. That thing is called a bullet. Watch me now."

  I have taken Sergeant Boule's musket and hold it up. "Open the pan, and bite the bullet out of the cartridge and hold it in your mouth. Like this." I put the corner of the thing between my teeth and rip out the bullet and tongue the lead off to the side of my mouth so I can still talk.

  "Put the hammer on half cock. Now prime the pan." I tap some powder into the little pan next to the hammer that holds the flint. "Close the pan, pour the rest of the powder down the barrel, then spit the bullet down in after it. Take your ramrod and jam it down. Remove the rod, full cock the hammer, present arms, and aim, then wait for the order to fire."

  I do all that and put the musket to my shoulder. "On the order, you will fire." I aim at a tree not far off and fire, tearing a bit of bark off the tree's trunk.

  "Good shooting, Sir!" enthuses Denis. I cast him a gimlet eye—I do not need a critique on my marksmanship from my drummer boy. He looks properly abashed. "Sorry, Sir."

  "All right, musketeers! Have you got it? Half Cock, Prime, Close, Pour, Spit, Ram, Full Cock, Present Arms. You have it? Good, let's do it. On my order. Load and Present!"

  I have them arranged in the Line for this, not wanting any of them to shoot any of their comrades in the back of the head, as might happen if they are formed in the Square.

  It is a disaster. Non! Michaud, do not look down the barrel! Dubois, you've spilled your powder! Damn! Gobin, take out the ramrod, take out the ramrod! Sweet Jesus! You are to shoot the Huns, not spear them!

  Eventually, they get it all done. They stand there, their muskets pointed at the tree.

  "Very well," I say, glaring at them. "Aim ... and ... Fire!"

  There is a blast of musketry and a piece of bark flies off the tree. At least one of them hit it.

  "Good. Reload. Same drill—Half Cock, Prime, Close, Pour, Spit, Ram, Full Cock, and Present. Fire on my order." They fuss with their muskets again. "A real soldier can load and fire three times inside of a minute. Before we march out of this camp, you must be able to do it at least two times a minute, or else you will be back to digging latrines. Ready? Present ... Aim ... Fire!"

  This time much more bark is ripped off the luckless tree, and a cheer goes up from the men.

  "Good. Give yourselves a real cheer, and let's do it again."

  Laurent lifts his fist and shouts, "Bravo, Clodhoppers!" And the rest of them follow suit. "Clodhoppers! Clodhoppers! Clodhoppers!"

  Well, good. Now let's get back at it.

  We do it over and over again, and when we are finished, we begin our march back to the camp for supper. I look with some worry at the clouds, as my men still do not have tents. I had been able to scrounge up a few large tarpaulins, generally used to cover cannon, and they will have to crowd under those should it rain. Before we leave the far fields, I spot a small, cozy inn tucked down in a little village below. Hmmm...

  My little drummer has been tapping out the time for our marching feet, and I have a thought. I am English, posing as American, and have no notion of French marching songs, so I say, "Drummer boy. Have you a song for us to march to?"

  He, being a child, begins to sing a child's song.

  Na-po-léon avait cinq cent sol-dats!

  Na-po-léon avait cinq cent sol-dats!

  Na-po-léon avait cinq cent sol-dats!

  Mar-chant du même pas!

  The men, with the exception of their older Sergeant Boule, of course, all know the song from their schoolyard days, and it turns out to be just the thing to march to—Napoléon had five hundred soldiers, marching all in time, it roughly translates. Here, Napoléon has but fourteen, marching sort of in time. Fifteen, counting me.

  When we get back, I see the men settled as best I can. Laurent, whom I am finding to be one of my cleverest men, has managed to stretch the tarps over some nearby cannons for the men to sleep under. He has also scrounged up some wood to make a campfire so they can gather about it and take some comfort in each other's company. They go to get their dinners, then return to the fire to eat. I hear a song raised as I head for the Officers' Mess.

  Lieutenant Depardieu waves me over and I take a chair next to him. A glass of wine is put in front of me and then food is brought—good food—and I tuck in. There are several others about whom I had met before, and we have a fine dinner. They, too, wish to be regaled with stories about America, and I give 'em what they want.

  As the tables are cleared and the wine mellows the company, they turn to singing songs, and demand one of me.

  "Alas, Messieurs, I have no voice..."

  "I think the reason is, the man's voice is changing," says one of the wags to some laughter, but I choose not to take offense.

  "...but, if you will excuse me for a moment, I might be able to provide you with some music." I rise, bow, and stride through the tent. I notice, on my way out, that a card game has been set up, and Major Levesque sits at the head of it. I do not meet his eyes.

  In a moment I am back at the Officers' Mess, with my fiddle under my arm ... and one of my decks of cards in my pocket. My men will have proper tents.

  "Messieurs! Some American tunes for your pleasure!" I put the bow to the fiddle and tear into a medley of fiddle tunes starting with "Cumberland Gap" and ending with "Hop High Ladies," which I top off with a bit of a dance. When I finish, I lift bow and fiddle and give a deep nod to an excellent round of applause.

  "Bravo, encore!" shouts one of them, but just then bugles blow outside for Lights Out, and my fiddle must fall silent.

  Officers, of course, do not have to turn in at this time and the place stays brightly lit.

  I walk from table to table, sharing wine and conversation with some of my new acquaintances. Eventually, as if by chance, I end up close to Levesque's table.

  He looks up at me. "You again."

  "I trust that things are now well between us, Sir
?"

  "That depends. Do you have any money, boy?" There is a big stack of coins and bills in front of him. One of the officers, plainly cleaned out, gets up and leaves.

  "Very little, Sir. But I do have some."

  "Good. Sit down."

  I sit down. "But I do not know how to play at cards, Sir."

  He chuckles and looks knowingly at his friends. "We will teach you, young Sir."

  I pull my few remaining coins out and put them on the table in front of me.

  Levesque deals out the cards, two to each of us—one down, one up. "The game is called vingt-et-un. Place your bets, gentlemen."

  The game, Major Levesque, as taught to me by Mr. Yancy Beauregard Cantrell on the Mississippi River, is also known as blackjack or twenty-one, and Mr. Cantrell taught me very, very well.

  In the game of blackjack, at least as it is played here, the odds are in favor of the dealer, as he is the house against which everyone else bets. Yes, he does have to cover all bets but he wins all ties, and therein lies the advantage. The object is for each player, by asking for additional cards, or hits, in New Orleans parlance, to get as close to twenty-one without going over. Aces count either one or eleven, depending on the rest of your hand; all face cards count ten. If you go over, whether dealer or player, you lose. If you stop at, say, nineteen—a four, a six, and a nine—while the dealer shows two tens, alas, you lose again. It is very good to be the dealer, but ... and here is the good thing ... the deal passes to the next player to get blackjack—an ace with any face card on the first two cards dealt to you.

  Having not much money, I bet very cautiously, waiting for my chance to deal. Levesque deals several rounds and rakes in even more money. He deals again and one of the lieutenants at the table scores blackjack, and, though irritated, Levesque passes the deal to him. I notice that he, too, bets carefully when the deal is not his, waiting for it to get back to him. Hélas, M'sieur, I think it will never come to you again, not this night.