by L. A. Meyer
I feel the midshipman’s arm tighten at that.
Richard gives Johnny a look that plainly says, She’s way out of your league, puppy, so forget any hot thoughts you might have in that regard. Back to your lonely hammock, boy, and suffer!
“Carry on with your duties, Midshipman,” growls Lord Allen to the poor middie. “I have custody of the lady.”
I give Midshipman Jonathan Harrington a smile, a wink, and a final squeeze of his arm as he flushes, salutes, casts a look upon me, does an about-face, and strides off, full, I am sure, of young male resentment.
“Could it be that you have made another conquest, Princess? Another Pale and Loitering Knight in Thrall to La Belle Jeune Fille Sans Merci?” asks Allen, watching the lad retreat, with some contempt writ on his face. “Seems to me there would be scant sport in bringing one such as him to heel.”
I laugh. “Oh, come on, Richard, he and I are of the same age and he is a nice young man. He was good company to me while you were off supervising the daily disposal of several tons of horse manure, or whatever other manly things of great importance that you do when you are not trying to toss my fallible self into a handy bed.”
Allen gives a lordly snort. “The beasts do produce a lot of that rather smelly commodity, and they are difficult to care for at sea, poor devils, being afraid of the constant movement,” he says with a smile. “But enough of horsy lore.” He bows slightly, taking my hand and kissing the back of it. “May I say, you look lovely, my dear little woodland sprite?”
“Thank you, sir. And may I say in return that you look absolutely smashing?”
“You may,” replies the rogue, running his tongue over his lips. “But, I must say, the dear little hand tastes of soap . . . and as for that bed—”
“I have just come from my bath.” I sniff, all prim and proper, and withdraw that same hand. “And never mind about my bed.”
“Hmm . . . An interesting image comes to mind—young Princess Pretty-Bottom, late of the Shawnee Tribe, the Belle of the Golden West, various backwaters of the Mississippi River, the Lorelei Lee, and other similar environs, lolling about in luxurious suds. Ummm, yes. However, I must banish it from my mind, lest I go mad with lust.”
I give him a poke. “Be good, you.”
“Mind you, soap is fine, in its place, but I much prefer your natural flavor—or flavors—Princess.”
Time to change the subject.
“Never mind me and my meager charms, milord,” I say. “Tell me about our situation here.”
Lord Allen turns and guides me to the rail of the ship, such that we might observe the goings-on at the dock.
“Our gallant forces, under General Wellesley, have just won a great victory at Rolica. Of course, we outnumbered the Frogs four to one, but no matter. It is still the first British victory over Napoleon and we will take it, however one-sided things were. The French, under the command of General Delaborde, were retreating in disorder and our army could have overwhelmed and slaughtered them, but Wellesley, hearing that this force of six thousand was arriving at Lisbon, instead sent the army here to cover our debarkation.”
“So he is a careful man?”
“Yes, though Old Nosey is a bold fighter, he is never one to take foolish chances, and the loss of the six thousand of us would be quite a blow to his cause.”
“Old Nosey?”
“Yes. He has a rather prominent nose. I would advise you not to stare at it when you first meet the great man.”
“Um, I shall take that to heart,” I say, nodding. “What sort of leader is he?”
Allen considers, then says, “His men respect and admire him and are glad to have him as their general, for their safety depends on his sound judgment, but they do not love him.”
“And why not?”
“He has a rather harsh personality. It is said that he does not suffer fools gladly.”
“Hmm. I wonder if he suffers jumped-up young female twits gladly,” I say with some trepidation. “Where is he headquartered?”
“He has taken over a building in a place called Vimeiro, where I believe there is to be a battle. We are to catch up with him there.”
“I hope you will be able to go with me, Richard?”
“Yes, I have been assigned to convey you to the great man and watch over your precious tail till we arrive. And, yes, I shall be allowed to introduce you to him, as it were. Lordship does have its privileges.”
“And after that, my good and most protective lord?” I purr, lifting his arm to place it around my shoulders and snuggling a bit into his side.
“After that, Cavalry Captain Allen, and the unruly pack of scoundrels he calls his men, will report to the Twentieth Light Dragoons, Seventh Brigade, to assist in bringing Napoleon’s minions to bay.”
Looking out, I see Bailey, Captain Allen’s trusted top sergeant, trying to bring some order to the chaos on the dock below. He has his hand wrapped around the reins of a particularly recalcitrant beast.
“Ahoy, Sergeant!” I call out, giving him a merry wave. “And there’s Private MacDuff, too! Hello, Archie!”
The two soldiers look up and knuckle their brows by way of salute. A bit ruefully, I suspect—my having peppered the whole of Richard’s troop of dragoons with rock salt shot from my cannons on the Belle of the Golden West, back there on the Mississippi, but I believe they have largely forgiven me for that.
“I will hate to see you go, Richard,” I say, giving him the big eyes. “And I want you to be very careful. I have a feeling things are going to get very messy around here.”
“Thank you for your concern, Princess, but we must go where Fortune sends us, must we not, as it is the poor soldier’s lot. Ah, there’s your coach. Are you ready to go?”
“As soon as Higgins comes up with our stuff. Ah. Here he is now.”
“Then let us be off, Princess,” says Lord Allen, offering his arm to lead me down the gangway. “And into the Peninsular War.”
Chapter 2
How many of my poor teeth are still left firmly in my jaw after that bone-shaking journey from Lisbon to here, I do not know. Suffice to say, the Portuguese have a lot to learn in the way of road building. God, I so much wanted to be outside that cramped coach and on a good horse, riding and singing next to Richard Allen—or maybe just riding up behind him, double like, with my arms wrapped around his middle. But such was not to be, oh, no. Frail female had to be delivered in sturdy coach, military regulations and all, don’cha know; never mind her poor aching backbone.
We rattle through miles and miles of dry, rocky, and scrubby land before we finally pull up before the big white stone building General Arthur Wellesley has taken for his headquarters here in Vimeiro, and we emerge from that wretched coach to stand in the sunlight and stretch. I put the knuckles of my right fist into the small of my back and grind it till things feel a little bit better back there. Give me a rolling, pitching, yawing ship thrashing about in gale-force winds and heavy seas any day of the week, I say.
Anyway, we are here. Two red-coated soldiers stand guard outside the entrance of the building, together with a junior officer. They do not look at all welcoming.
“I shall stand by, Miss, until given instructions as to where we will be quartered,” says Higgins, seeing to the removal of our baggage from the coach.
“Very good, John. We shall soon find that out. Captain Allen?”
Allen, having dismounted and given his horse off to Private MacDuff, strides to the door and announces, his hand on the hilt of his sword, “Captain Richard Allen to see General Wellesley.”
The officer who stands by the door asks, “For what purpose, Sir?”
“None of your goddamn business, Sir. Announce us,” answers Lord Allen, frosting the man down to his boots with his patrician gaze, a gaze honed by centuries of ancestors using the same in putting underlings in their place. “That’s Lord Richard Allen.”
The composure of the very junior officer crumples under that gaze and he retreats into
the interior of the building.
Presently, he comes back out and, with a bow, ushers us in.
It is a large room, and at the far end is a long table at which are seated a number of men. In the center of them is a man who, given the deference shown him by the others, must be Sir Arthur Wellesley.
We advance to the table. General Wellesley, not waiting for explanation, asks with a certain amount of irritation in his voice, “And what is this, then?”
Richard Allen steps forward, bows, and says, “General Wellesley, I am Captain Lord Allen, Twentieth Light Dragoons, at your service, Sir. May I present Miss J. M. Faber? She has been sent from Naval Intelligence to aid you in the way of Spanish, French, and Portuguese language translations. Miss Faber, General Sir Arthur Wellesley.”
I curtsy, but he does not bow—nor does he rise from his chair.
Wellesley’s cold gray eyes travel over the both of us. Then he looks down what does prove to be a very long, thin nose and speaks.
“From Intelligence, eh? Sent to spy upon me, no doubt. How jolly.”
Richard was right. This man does not mince words, and he does not seem very jolly when he says that. In fact, I suspect the man is seldom jolly.
“I am very pleased to meet you, Sir,” I say, all respectful. “But spying on my fellow countrymen is not my field of endeavor, Sir, nor is it part of my orders.” It is, of course, exactly why I was sent here. To be a fly on the wall, as it were. “My orders are to come here and to assist you in any way I can, mainly as a translator of the local tongues.”
That gets me a short snort through that very long nose.
“I already know how to speak French, girl. There are many with me who can help me with the Spanish and Portuguese.” He gestures to the men who sit by him, two on each side. “I do not think I need you hanging about.”
“Very good, Sir. I am glad to hear that you are so very well served. If you have no need of my services, then perhaps I might be allowed to return to England?”
Hooray! If I am able to get back, I’ll be able to book passage to Rangoon and find out what’s up with Jaimy! Oh, please, let me go!
“By all means, go. Get out of my sight.”
Fuming at being treated such, but relieved by the turn of events, I go to turn on my heel and head for the exit. Hooray! Come on, Richard, let’s get out of here!
But I don’t turn on my heel, nor do we get to the exit.
The man to the right of the general says, “Wait, Miss. Please, Sir. Take a look at this.” And he hands him a paper.
Uh-oh . . .
The Wellesley eyes scan the paper and then he looks up at me.
“Napoleon himself?”
“By that do you mean, ‘Have I met him?’ Then, yes, Sir, I have.”
“Where?”
“At the Battle of Jena. I stood by his side as the fog lifted.”
“And just what were you doing there?”
“He and I were having breakfast.”
“Don’t be cute. I repeat: What were you doing there?”
“While under the orders of British Intelligence, I had gained a commission as a second lieutenant in the Grand Army of the Republic. I was assigned as a messenger to l’Empereur’s staff.”
“Hmmm . . .” Another paper is passed and read. He looks up at me again.
“I see you wear that medal,” he says. “Where did you get it? In a pawnshop?”
I ignore his sneer and reply, “I was at Trafalgar, Sir.”
“Oh, you were? And what was your rating? Trollop? Ship’s Pump? Gunner’s Wife?” There are snickers from the toadies at the great man’s table.
“Sir, I must protest!” says Richard Allen, close by my side.
“Be quiet, Captain, else I will have you removed and demoted, Lord or not. Go on, girl. Exactly what were you doing there?”
“During the battle, I was doing my duty as a lieutenant in charge of a gun crew.”
“As a lieutenant? Is that why you are dressed in that outrageous fashion? A naval officer’s jacket on a girl’s back? Come, come. You must know that many here would call that a sacrilege of the first order.”
“If it please you, Sir,” I say, hitting a brace, “I was made midshipman by Captain Locke of HMS Dolphin, having been in several engagements with pirates, and promoted to lieutenant by Captain Scroggs of HMS Wolverine, after an encounter with a French gunboat. To my knowledge, Sir, my commission has not been revoked, nor have I resigned it. I was briefly in command of the Wolverine, and in that capacity, I took many prizes that greatly enriched the King’s treasury. Furthermore, I was present on my own ship at the action between HMS Dolphin and the Spanish First-Rate San Cristobal, which resulted in the taking of that eighty-eight-gun man-of-war,” I say, puffing up into a state of high indignation. “So, I ask you, my good sir, who else is more qualified to wear this jacket?”
“General, I can attest to the truth of what she is saying, as I was there,” says Richard, refusing to be silenced.
Wellesley’s eyes shift to my gallant light horseman.
“Lord Allen, I perceive that you wear a cavalry uniform on your person and it bears the insignia of a captain in that service. Am I right in that perception?”
“Yes, General, you are,” replies Richard, through clenched jaws.
“Then you must have a unit to which you are obliged to report?”
“Yes, Sir. The Seventh Brigade, Twentieth Light Dragoons.”
“Good. Then go report there. You may leave her here. Good day to you, Sir.”
I feel Richard bristle at the brusque manners, the implied insult, but I put my hand on his arm to restrain him from any rash action on either my behalf or his.
“Go, Richard. I will be all right. Thank you for your kind protection” is what I say with my voice, but my eyes fix on his and they plead, Oh, Richard, please be careful! Do not worry about me. No silly heroics now, please.
Lord Allen gives a very short bow to General Wellesley, and a very deep bow to me. He then turns and leaves me to once again stand alone in front of a table with disapproving males seated behind it, shuffling papers and glowering at my poor self. My back is straight, my arms held stiffly down at my sides, my eyes cased, and my knees locked. I wait for what is to come, with not a great amount of hope.
The questions come quick and fast.
“Not much to you, is there?”
“I believe there is enough of me to get by.”
“You look to be about twelve.”
“I was starved as a child. I was a beggar on the streets of London. Perhaps it stunted my growth.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You don’t look it.”
“I am sorry that I do not meet your expectations.”
“You do not seem very sorry.”
“I am not, Sir. I am what I am.”
Another sheaf of papers is passed to General Wellesley. I get to cool my heels as he reads all about me.
Presently he looks up and says, “Remarkable . . . Even more remarkable is that you have not yet swung from a gallows.”
I risk a shrug. “The Crown and I have not always seen eye to eye on some things.”
“Indeed,” he says, musing as he reads further. “And why have you not yet been hanged?”
“Perhaps it is my winning personality.”
“It is certainly not your beauty.”
“Thank you, Sir. I shall treasure that compliment for the rest of my life, however short that life may be. But, should I displease you in the way of appearance or otherwise, I do beg to be excused, as I do not wish to give offense.”
“Not yet.” He peruses another sheet of paper. “You say you were assigned as a messenger to Napoleon’s staff. It seems preposterous.”
“I was a messenger in the Grand Army. I volunteered as an American and gained the rank of sous Lieutenant. As such, I delivered many messages for l’Empereur. Both to . . . and from him.”
“Hmmm. It s
ays here that you delivered one particular message that could have turned the tide of that particular battle—a message from Bonaparte to Murat ordering him to charge the Prussian line in order to save Marshal Ney’s foolhardy ass. This is beyond belief. A mere girl . . . Why should we believe all this twaddle?”
“Believe what you will, Sir,” I say, reaching inside my jacket and pulling out a scrap of paper. I fling it on the desk. “But have any of you ever seen one of these?”
There is a gasp as they see what the paper has on it—a seal in bright blue wax showing the large “N” surrounded by acanthus leaves impressed thereon. Below it is written the word “Charge.”
“Yes, gentlemen,” I say. “It is, indeed, Napoleon’s imperial seal. He gave it to me as surety when he sent me off to deliver that message to Murat—the message that I did, indeed, deliver.”
Wellesley fumes, his hands crumpling the papers.
“Could you possibly know”—he pauses—“how much easier this war would be to win if Napoleon had fewer battalions? Which he might have been bereft of had you not delivered that accursed message?”
“I am not a military tactician. I am only a poor girl who seeks to do her duty for her country.”
There are snorts of derision all around.
“Why do I not simply pull out a pistol, right now, and shoot you down as a traitor?” He brings those flinty gray eyes to bear upon mine. “I believe none would blame me.”
“Many, I am sure, would applaud and sing your praises.” At that, I reach up and unbutton the top of my jacket, exposing the frilly white shirt beneath. “Here is my chest, Sir. Underneath it lies my heart. I am sure you have a pistol close at hand. I trust that, as a soldier, your aim will be true and I will not suffer much. I also hope I will not mess up your bloody floor too very much with my unworthy blood.”
Several of the subalterns are trying to stifle laughter. Wellesley reddens and casts warning looks all around.
“Why do you still have the seal in your possession?” he demands.
“Marshal Murat handed it back to me, there on the Plain of Jena, saying he had plenty of them and I should keep it to show my grandchildren,” I say. “And I shall, should I live long enough to have any such issue.”
