by L. A. Meyer
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.
Tearing myself away, I turn back to my troops and try to collect myself, but it is so hard....Little Mary, Orphan of the streets of London, member in good standing of Rooster Charlie's Gang of Urchins, has just traded salutes with Napoléon Bonaparte, Emperor of France, and Ruler of much of the world.
As I look down my ranks, I see that my own is not the only wet eye here. I know that they love him, no question, and I know why. He has raised up worthy soldiers from the ranks and made them generals. He has set up schools for all children, rich or poor, all across his land—I have found that all of my men, well, at least the young ones born after the Revolution, can read and write. He has built roads and visited factories and shaken hands with common workers. I have heard that he has stopped the practice of flogging on his ships, and I have certainly seen no soldier whipped since I have been here, which I would have in any British unit or British ship. I do not know what to think about any of this. I know that he has been responsible for hundreds of thousands of deaths in his march to conquest, but still, I don't know. As I so often come to realize, I don't know nothin' about nothin'.
Shaking off these thoughts, I again address my squad. "The excitement is over. Let us go back to the drill. Today we march here, and tomorrow we march to Germany. Corporal Laurent, form the men and let us go over that hill and far away from all this ceremony. This is now for the Marshals and the Generals. Ready? Good. Forward March!"
Dear Jaimy, I hope you are well and quite recovered from your wound. I, myself, am in good condition, curled up in my bedroll and under my neat little tent, and am officially a Second Lieutenant in the French Army. How about that for the world turned upside down? 'Course if I am found out, I shall certainly be stood up and shot—while Boney doesn't flog his men much, he certainly doesn't hesitate to shoot them should they disobey their officers or desert their units.
I have a small squad of Infantry under my command—farm boys, really, who now proudly call themselves Jack Bouvier's Own Clodhoppers—and this afternoon, after we had drilled enough, I slipped them out of the camp and down to a little tavern I had spotted before and stood them to a treat for all their hard work. With muskets lined up against the wall, we had cakes and ale and sang some songs and had a very good time. Maybe the last one we shall have for a long time. On the way back to our tents, Private Gobin, perhaps having had a bit too much for his young self to drink, threw his arm around my neck in a most unmilitary way, and said, "I would follow you into Hell itself, Sir!" As the other men pried him off me, I replied, "That is good, Private Harve Gobin, for that is exactly where we might very well be marching to tomorrow"
I had gotten the money to pay for that treat from playing at cards with a certain Major Levesque, actually Chef de Bataillon August Levesque, as the French Military would have it. I wonder at what you would think of me cheating at cards, Jaimy, you being so upright and noble? Ah, well, I consider my skill in that regard as just another arrow in my quiver. Besides, Major Levesque had it coming. I will never tell you this to your face, for it would enrage you, but he spanked me in front of all the troops. Yes, spanked! He had it coming, for sure.
And then there is the matter of Jean-Paul de Valdon. I think you would like him, Jaimy, if you two were ever to meet. He is my contact out here on the field, and is, therefore, a traitor to his country, yet he is going to march out with us as a lieutenant in the Light Cavalry and risk his life for Napoléon. 'Course he doesn't see it that way. He sees it as fighting for France, not for Boney. He is still a loyal Frenchman and will fight for his country, no matter what. Don't expect me to work all this out ... male honor and all that, which I have never really understood.
I do know I am training troops that might someday fight and kill British boys. I don't know what to think about that. I just take it day by day. At night I tell myself that I should not care how my pack of farm boys acquit themselves when it comes down to it ... but I do ... oh, yes, I do.
And y'know, Jaimy, they are just boys, and just like ours ... It is such a pity.
Good night, Jaimy. I hope I will dream of you tonight. Now I will go to sleep.
PART V
Chapter 33
"An army moves on its stomach." That is one of the Emperor's more often quoted sayings, and it is true, at least of this army—it moves across the land like an enormous slug, sucking up everything in its path. Yes, there are endless supply wagons that trail behind us, but woe be to any chicken or pig we happen to encounter. I find that my Clodhoppers, for all their lack of military skills, prove to be very good poachers, and we have dined very well on the fruits of their efforts. Several very succulent geese that paid the ultimate price of being delicious come to mind—and I would advise any farmer who had daughters to keep them well under lock and key.
I ride alongside Bouvier's Own Clodhoppers as we march merrily along, across Flanders and the Rhine into High Germany itself. Napoléon's Pontonniers, engineers adept at getting the Grande Armée across rivers and such, have constructed bridges so Mathilde and I do not even have to get our feet wet. Well, I generally ride alongside—Dubois had developed a blister on his heel, and after I'd poured pure alcohol on it and bandaged it up, I let him, bearing the hoots of derision from his comrades, ride Mathilde till it got better, while I marched along with the others. It is good for me, I think. I would not like to believe I am getting soft.
Though I pitch my tent with my men and see that they are taken care of, I now spend most of my time as a member of General Charpentier's staff, running messages back and forth between the generals and field marshals. It often turns out that I am given a message—rolled, sealed, and put into the leather pouch that hangs over my shoulders—and Mathilde and I pound off to deliver it, only to be told to wait while another correspondence is prepared, and then I am given that to deliver to yet another high officer. When not occupied doing that, I hie back to the Sixteenth Fusiliers to rest and to await further orders. That rest is hard to come by, as Bonaparte has ordered many forced marches on this trek to battle. While a normal army counts itself lucky to move fifteen miles in a day, the French Army, when ordered to, can do twenty or even twenty-five. It is a great advantage when armies are jockeying for position, which is exactly what we are doing now. But it is hard on my men, and I hate to see them suffer.
"Asleep, lad?" asks Captain Bardot. I jerk up my head, which had nodded and finally had fallen onto Mathilde's soft mane. I see, to my shame, that Captain Bardot has pulled his own horse up next to mine, and I realize that sometime a while back Corporal Laurent must have noticed my fallen reins and had taken them up to walk alongside and lead me along as I slept.
"Sorry, Sir. Afraid so," I say, rubbing my eyes and setting my shako straight. I had been awake most of last night, galloping between lit-up tents that held the senior staffs of the three columns, many of them miles and miles apart. But that's no excuse, and I know it.
"That's all right, Bouvier. Get all the rest you can. I've got a strong suspicion that we'll see l'Empereur steal a march on these Germans before we finally meet," says Captain Bardot, pulling back on the reins to his horse, so that its pace will match that of my Mathilde.
Stealing a march! That means marching all one day, then marching all night and into the next day! Mon Dieu!
I rub the sleep out of my eyes and take the reins back from Laurent, thanking him for his trouble and giving Matti a chuck to bring her up to speed. Poor baby, you certainly got no nap. I pat her neck and hope it gives her some comfort. We round the top of a hill and look out over the Grande Armée de la République.
Bonaparte has one hundred and sixty thousand soldiers in this army, almost all battle-hardened veterans, and on this march he has divided them into three parallel columns: The left column is led by the V Corps, commanded by Marshal Lannes; the center one led by I Corps, with Marshal Bernadotte at the head; and the right column headed by IV Corps under Marshal Soult. The other three Corps commanded by Marshals Davout, Ney, Augereau formed up behind. The front of the Army is about thirty-eight miles wide, and its length is about the same. Prince Murat's Cavalry Reserve, seventeen thousand strong, fans out across the front of the Army as a protective screen. I learned all this from Captain Bardot, who is turning out to be an excellent source of information.
"You see, Bouvier," Captain Pierre Bardot says, pointing out over the multitude, "this formation, being essentially a square, gives the Emperor the ability to attack in any direction, merely by ordering simple flanking maneuvers." Bar-dot trots by my side, pointing out things he finds are of military interest. He has taken a bit of a shine to me, it seems, and I have become his protégé. This is good for me, since, under his unofficial protection, I do not have to endure insults and issue any more ridiculous challenges to duels—duels I would most surely lose if it came down to it. "And, since the length and the depth of the Army is only a two-day march, the Emperor will be able to bring down the full force of his attack on any point in only forty-eight hours. Brilliant, n'est-ce pas? It is not for nothing that he has been called the 'God of War.'"
I have to nod in agreement. At times, when we top yet another hill and I can look out over everything and see that mass of disciplined men spread before me, I think that I would not want to face it. Again, I ponder what would have happened had Nelson and the British Navy not won at Trafalgar.
"When do you think we shall meet the Prussians, Sir?" I ask.
He rolls his ever-present cigar to the other side of his mouth and considers. "Well, today is the tenth. We begin to cross the River Saale tomorrow, which means we'll probably meet them on the thirteenth or fourteenth. I gather from General Charpentier that the Emperor's overall plan is to get between the Prussian Army and Berlin, thereby forcing them to fight where he wants them to fight—in the open, on the plateau around Jena." He chuckles and claps me on the back. "Whatever, lad, it's sure to be hot work and glory enough to go around."
Well. That is some information I must get to Jean-Paul. Don't know what good it will do, since it seems to be general knowledge if a mere captain knows of the plan, but it's some-thing ... and I don't really know if I want it to do any good ... or any bad. As usual, I don't know nothin.
"Well, we all want that, don't we, Sir? Honor and glory and all?"
He snorts and pitches away the stub of his cigar. "But of course. Honor and glory, to be sure," he says, and I look into his eyes and I know that he is thinking of what he has seen in the way of war—the mud, the filth, the hunger, the burning towns, the ravaged women, the murdered children, the battles where men fall rank upon rank before the merciless cannons like wheat before a scythe, and, finally, after it's all over and the butcher's bill is added up, the sickening sweet stink of the honored dead as their bodies lie rotting on the battlefield. "Mais oui," he says with a certain weariness, as he pulls out yet another cigar and clamps it in his jaw. "Thank God we French invented matches, eh, Bouvier?" he says, striking one on the pommel of his saddle and firing up his cheroot. "Proves we're good for more than just making war, non?"
I like him. We have visited a few taverns together on our way to this place, and I found his company welcome. He fancies himself quite the hand with the ladies and has gone off with more than one on this journey. He even offered to buy me a girl once, in a tavern two days back, but I begged off, citing my youth and shyness. He reminds me a bit of a certain Captain Lord Richard Allen, of recent acquaintance—'cept he's about five years older, dark where Allen was fair, and is about half a foot taller and twenty pounds heavier, and much more cynical. Maybe it's those awful cigars ... no, I think it's all in his attitude toward the military, his superior officers, and life in general that brings Richard Allen to mind.
And where are you now, my bold Captain Allen? Hmmm? Well, wherever it is, I'm glad you're well out of this one, 'cause I know it ain't gonna be pretty.
"By the way, Jacques," Bardot says, offhandedly, "do you know you are not the only American volunteer here? Non? Yes, there are several others. Most from the South of your country, but one other from the North. I met him at a staff meeting yesterday, but I cannot recall his name."
Damn! Just what I need! Some other American to blow my cover!
"...and he did not know your name when I mentioned it."
"It is a big country, M'sieur," I say with a certain amount of dread.
"Ah, yes. But no matter. Here comes Depardieu with something obviously on his mind."
Lieutenant Depardieu comes pounding down the road and pulls up next to us.
"Bouvier! The General wants you! Right now!"
"Aye, Sir!" I say, glad that he did not see me sleeping earlier. I put the heels to Mathilde, wave good-bye to Pierre, and gallop off.
***
"Lieutenant Bouvier. You are to ride forward to see how the pontonniers are proceeding with the bridge over the Saale. Take their report and then deliver it to the Emperor's camp," orders General Charpentier.
My jaw drops open.
L'Empereur!
"Yes, Bouvier, the Emperor. Things are heating up, messengers become scarce, and it is possible you will not return to us for a while." The General hands me my detachment orders, and I tuck them in my pouch. Without them I could be shot as a deserter if found away from my unit. "Take some Fusiliers with you for protection, as you will be exposed, out in front of the army. Watch for skirmishers, as there are always plenty of rascals who lurk at the edge of an army looking for easy prey."
"Thank you, Sir. I shall be careful. Thank you for your concern and thank you for your kindness to me. I will take four of my unit with me. Laurent, Michaud, Guerrette, and Vedel." All former poachers, long of leg, and excellent marksmen.
The General nods to his aide-de-camp, who writes out the detachment chits for my men and then regards me with an appraising eye. "In the short time you have been here, Bouvier, you have made something of a reputation for yourself. You are a swift messenger, but there are swifter. You are a good officer, but there are better. I don't know what it is, but there is something about you that makes you very easy to like." He shakes these thoughts out of his head and looks away. "Good luck to you. That is all."
I salute and then go to collect my men. My drummer boy, Dufour, gives me the big eyes and begs to be taken along, so I let him come. After all, he is my orderly; he knows his duty. He is also a boy who seeks adventure, and I can understand that. Within a half hour we are off, me on Mathilde, and the five of them loping easily alongside, the poachers' muskets at Trail Arms, and all eyes alert to danger.
And danger there proves to be.
Chapter 34
Yancy Beauregard Cantrell, River Gambler Extraordinaire, once told me as we floated down the Mississippi, "Miss Faber, if you ever want to lose your money, attend a twenty-five-mile race where a man on foot is pitted against a good horse, and bet on the horse. The man, if he is a runner in good condition, will win every time."
When I expressed disbelief at this, he said, "No, it's true—I've seen it done. The man won by a mile. You see, the horse is good for short bursts of speed, but the man has the endurance. Plus, the horse has to carry his rider, while the man has only himself to propel along. The man will win a twenty-five-yard race as well, for he is quicker off the line. As always, Jacky, you beware of betting on what looks like a sure thing."
I have always tried to take that advice to heart, but sometimes I fail.
My long-legged poachers, two on each side of me, keep up the quick-march pace as we close the distance to the river, and at last we see the Saale gleaming down below us. It's been a brisk twelve-mile hike and Mathil
de is puffing like a bellows, and my Clodhoppers are a bit winded as well.
"There it is, lads," I say, pointing to the encampment below. The place is abuzz with activity—wagons are bringing in loads of fresh-cut logs, and men are in the water placing them upright and lashing them down to form X's on which to place the planks that will support the heavy cavalry and troops and even heavier artillery cannons. They seem to be about halfway across. There is a large tent set up in the middle of it all, and that is sure to be the command post of Colonel Maurais, Chief of Engineers.
As we go down into the river valley, I turn to Laurent. "That looks like a mess tent. Go there and see that you all get something to eat. Make sure you get a plate for Dufour, too. Dufour, stay by me." My orderly and sometime drummer boy looks up at me. "When I dismount, take my mare and walk her till she cools, and then get her to a trough for some water. Not too much, though..."
"I know horses, M'sieur," asserts Denis Dufour. "I'm a Clodhopper, a farm boy, remember?"
"Good. Then get her some oats if you can find some, and afterward rejoin your comrades for some food of your own."
In a few minutes we reach the camp, where we are challenged, so I give today's password, which is Victoire, so we are allowed through the lines and I dismount in front of the big tent and hand the reins to my boy. "Have her back here as soon as you can." My Special Poachers Division of Bouvier's Own Clodhoppers has already gone off toward the steaming mess tent, and I don't blame them, as my own belly is setting up a fierce growl. As Denis leads Mathilde away, I give her a pat on her flank, then I go up to the tent to present myself.
The guard outside the tent looks me over and lets me in. I take off my shako, tuck it under my arm, and duck down under the flap and look about. There is yet another table with men about it, but instead of studying maps, they are looking at drawings of bridges, fortifications, and other structures. Many have mud on their boots, and one officer is wet to his waist. These men are Napoléon's fabled engineers, men who have made it possible for him to get his army where he wanted it to go.