by L. A. Meyer
Yes, my arm does shake, and the good Sidrah does put her calming hand upon it, saying, Please, Jai-mee-san, calmness . . . calmness . . . Empty your mind. Surrender yourself to the peace of Buddha.
We both gaze up at the benign countenance looming above us in the dim interior of the temple. Incense smoke swirls about the smiling face of Gautama Buddha and I strive to accept it all . . .
Yours,
Jaimy
Chapter 5
“Princess!” says Lord Allen as I arrive in his encampment. “Come join us! Welcome!”
There is a table set up outside a large tent and at it sit four men, one of whom is Richard Allen. He rises, grinning broadly, and comes over to take the reins of my horse as I dismount. My boots have scarcely hit the ground when he encircles my waist with his strong right arm, bends me back, and plants a quick one on my mouth. I reflect that this is probably the first time I have taken a kiss while still wearing my shako. Rather awkward, actually, but still, I enjoy it.
“I must say, Pretty-Bottom,” murmurs Lord Allen in my ear, then releases me, takes my hand, and leads the way to the table, “you look absolutely smashing in that rig. A French Hussar are you now?”
“At one time I was, Richard, but now, once again, Jacky Faber is just a humble servant of King George.”
Two of the men still seated there are dressed in Cavalry scarlet, the other one in mostly black. They all look up in some surprise at my appearance and the welcome I had just received from Cavalry Captain Allen.
“Colonel Robbe, may I present Miss Jacky Faber, Lieutenant, Royal Navy. Lieutenant Faber, Colonel Kenneth Robbe, commander of the Twentieth Light Dragoons.”
I give a slight bow and, hand to brim of shako, snap off a salute, saying, “Honored, Sir!”
“And Major Gavin MacLean.”
Again, a nod and salute. All three men are now standing, it having finally dawned on them that I am female and manners demand that they get to their feet to greet one such as me.
“And this is Senhor Montoya, leader of a squadron of partisans that will be joining us in this little skirmish.”
The two rather stunned British officers mumble something that passes for salutation—Ah, yes, charmed, I’m sure, and Good afternoon, uh . . . Mum—but Senhor Montoya is much more eloquent.
“Boa tarde, Senhorita,” he says, smiling widely and looking me directly in the eye. He reaches out his hand to take mine, then bows low, putting a kiss on the back of the Faber paw, making me glad I had washed that very same paw earlier and scrubbed out its fingernails. “I rejoice to see such a beautiful lady in the midst of the English army. I hope you know you have brightened my day.”
“Muito obrigado, Senhor. Você e’ muito amável,” I reply with a slight dip. “You do not seem too surprised to see me here.”
“Ah, no, I am not. You see, fair one, we have many brave women in the ranks of our fighters. Many brave and beautiful women.”
Montoya is a darkish fellow, swarthy of complexion, medium height, compact and sturdy-looking, with black hair pulled back from a high brow and tied with a red ribbon. He wears a thick mustache, also black, and a short goatee, all of which frame a very toothy smile. His breast is crisscrossed with thick brown leather belts, each ad- orned with white musket cartridges. He is quite good- looking in a rough sort of way and does not seem to be the kind of man who is abashed by stiff British officers, or by me.
Richard Allen leads me to a chair and I sit down, pulling off my shako and placing it top down on the table. He calls for wine and it is brought—ah, this is good; it was a dusty four miles from there to here—and then we get down to business.
“How did it go with our noble leader?” asks Allen, lifting his glass and holding it up to me.
“About what you’d expect. He as much as threw me out,” I say, lifting my glass to him and to the others around the table. “After he gleaned all the information about Boney he could drag out of me.”
“The man is very methodical, for sure,” says Colonel Robbe. “But I think that is a good thing for us. He is not a man to sacrifice troops needlessly.”
There are nods of agreement all around.
“Nor does he mince words, Colonel,” I pipe up. “While it was plain that he had very little regard for me, he also had some harsh things to say about cavalry in general. If I may quote, ‘Vainglorious idiots waving swords and charging at anything that moves, no plans, no foresight . . .’”
“Hmm . . .” Robbe glowers. “Be that as it may, he could possibly find us ‘vainglorious idiots’ quite handy in the next few days.”
“He also said something I found quite unsettling. He said that when French General Loison took the town of Evora, he ordered every man, woman, and child in that city put to the sword. Is that true?”
The man Montoya answers for him. “It is true, Senhorita. Every bit of it.” He is no longer smiling.
“My God . . . What could Loison hope to gain from that? He already had the city at his feet.”
Montoya leans over the table. “He hoped to scare our people into submission. What he has gained is the exact opposite. As the story of the atrocity spreads across Portugal and Spain, the people are rising up even now against the invader Napoleon and all his generals. When before they saw Bonaparte as a liberator, delivering them from a backward, inbred, corrupt, and stupid aristocracy, they now see him as the cruel despot he really is. He has made a big mistake, Senhorita, count on it. People do not forget . . .”
Indeed, they do not, yet so many would-be conquerors believe that they will . . .
“ . . . and if you will excuse me, Tenente Faber, I must go see to meus companheiros. Bom dia. Meeting you was a great pleasure.”
He rises, bows, flashes another wide grin at me, spins on his heel, and strides to the side of a horse that is tethered nearby. He leaps upon it and is gone in a cloud of dust.
“Quite the dashing one, that,” I observe, having checked out the broadness of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips, and the length of his straight legs as he walked away.
“Yes,” says Richard. “A veritable cock-of-the-walk, as it were. Still, he and his guerrillas have proved most useful in keeping track of the French advance.”
Colonel Robbe also rises, as do all of us. “I, too, must be off to see to the disposition of my forces. Good day, all.”
He leaves, and we plop back down in our chairs. I believe I notice a general lightening of the atmosphere at the table, now that both the superior officer and the foreigner have gone.
The steward comes back and refills our glasses. It is quite hot, here in the late afternoon sun of Portugal, and I say, “Do you mind, Major, if I remove this, as it is rather warm?” and with that I doff my wig and stuff it into my shako. “Ah, that feels much better.” I sigh, as the slight breeze ruffles my natural stubble.
Major Gavin MacLean is a bit stunned at the sight, but he recovers. “Not at all, my dear,” he says, then turns to Richard Allen. “Richard, just how do you do it, continually coming up with such delightful things?”
“This one just sort of popped up one day, in the wilds of America, if you can believe it, Gavin. I have been forever grateful for that chance meeting.”
“Suppose I had taken off my hairpiece earlier,” I ask, playing the coquette with fluttering eyelashes.
“If you had”—MacLean laughs—“I’m sure our Senhor Montoya would have scooped you up and borne you away right then, my dear. He seemed quite taken with you.”
“She does not scoop up all that easily, Gavin,” says Allen, a bit testily, I note with some satisfaction. “And as to who’s dear she is—”
“So they will come through there?” I ask, pointing down the valley to a place between two low hills.
“Yes,” says MacLean. “Montoya reports about thirteen thousand, arranged in three divisions, with artillery to each side.”
“Umm,” I say. “Sure to be bloody.”
“It always is, Miss,” he says. “But we ho
pe for the best.”
“Indeed we do, but the best is what we seldom get,” I say, with some foreboding.
A tinkling of female laughter is heard from a nearby wagon, and I look in that direction.
“Some of the lads have brought their wives with them,” explains Allen, seeing my ear cocked to the sound. “They are quite the spirited crew.”
“It seems they are quite merry,” says I, having yet another sip of the very good wine.
“You know, Jacky, if you would marry me, you could join their merry band. ’Course, things do look a bit crowded in there, but you could hop right in the wagon with the bunch of them. After, of course, we enjoy a lamentably brief but surely lusty honeymoon in my poor tent. Hmm? What do you think?”
I think, my good Lord Allen, that you are putting on a bit of a show for the benefit of your friend Gavin, here. Do you want me to blush and look all demure? Men, I swear . . . But I will play along.
“I am sure I would find their company most congenial, and your tent seems right cozy, milord, but I must demur, for I am sure you would not be able to find an ordained minister in this crowd of military men to perform the service, and as I am a good Christian girl, I would require the proper words to be said before I would go into your tent with you.”
“True, alas, Old Nosey does not travel with a chaplain,” says Allen.
“More’s the pity,” I say, rising. “Major MacLean, a true pleasure meeting you. I hope you will be safe in the coming days. I must get back to headquarters. Richard, will you walk with me a bit before I go?”
We walk, my blue-clad arm wrapped around his red one, along a cow path, then over a low hill, and look down upon a small river curling about below. This land of Portugal appears lush where land meets river and stream. When no water is around, the land goes scrubby and arid. I suspect Spain shall be the same. Fine for growing oranges and tangerines, so that’s all to the good, I suppose.
“It is the Maceiro River, Higgins has informed me. Is this not a beautiful view, Richard?” I sigh, leaning my head against his shoulder.
“Indeed it is, Jacky. ‘Every aspect doth please,’ as the poets would have it,” he says as we pause to take in the scene. “But I’d rather look upon thee, my sweet little river sprite, as I find that aspect much more interesting. Perhaps we should ride down and have a bit of a dip in that bend in the river there. Looks like it might have a rather inviting pool. What say, Princess? For old times’ sake?”
I blush at the thought of that and give the rogue a poke in the ribs for his cheek. I know, of course, he is referring to that delightful but ultimately disastrous watery romp we shared back there on the Mississippi River.
“That little river is not the Big Muddy, Richard,” I say sadly, thinking on those rather carefree days. “And that was then and this is now.”
I take a deep breath and snuggle into his side. “Oh, why could we not have come here on some Grand Tour, just the two of us, to sample the joys of this beautiful land and its lovely people? A nice drink in some charming country café, a stroll with our arms about each other down some pleasant street, a picnic on the green banks of that river down there, your head in my lap as I curl your beautiful hair about my forefinger and breathe some poetry into your ear. Why not that? Yes, just the two of us, each enjoying the sweet company of the other. Some music, some laughter, some dancing, a gentle kiss and caress here and there. Why not that, Richard, instead of this?”
I look over to the left to see rank upon rank of soldiers, legions of men lining up, muskets primed and at the ready, artillery caissons rattling down rough roads, all getting ready to do their brutal work.
“Thousands of men getting ready to kill each other, and me and you in the middle of it. Why this and not the other?”
He follows my gaze and says, “I do not know the ‘why’ of many things, Princess, but I do know one thing—war is my business and I must attend to it.”
“I know, Richard, I know, but please hold me and give me a kiss and make me feel better, if only for this moment, this fleeting moment.”
I bury my face in the front of his chest and feel his arms go about me.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, Richard, I do. Be careful. You must not—”
He smiles down on me. “Now, Princess. You must stop with that nonsense. Every soldier judges the odds before a battle and weighs his chances, wondering if this is the one where the bullet with his name on it finally finds its way to his heart. Ah, come on, Prettytail, it’s silly stuff. Questioning Fate is—”
I twist around and grab him by the upper arms and gaze intently into his eyes. “No, Richard, I will not have it. You talk oh-so-flip and carefree, but I know you have your brave and careless and foolhardy ways. And I will not have it, no, I won’t! You hear me?” I give him a shake, my eyes starting to fill with worried tears.
“Yes, Jacky, I will be careful, I promise.”
“No charging windmills, my sweet lord?”
“Ah, not me, my pretty little miss. My duty and nothing more,” he says, putting a light kiss on my brow and chuckling deep in his throat. “But as for charging windmills, I well recall the eight-gun Nancy B. Alsop charging into battle against the eighty-four-gun behemoth San Cristobal back there on the Caribbean Sea. Do you recall that as well, Captain Miss Faber? Hmmm?”
“That was different, Captain Lord Allen, that was—”
“No, it wasn’t. It was foolhardy and crazy and you damn well know it. But you did it, anyway. Now, alas, we must get back. My men have probably all deserted by now. Here, let’s get you squared away.”
I had shoved my wig back on my head and it sat there all askew, its locks falling about my streaming eyes.
“There,” he says, straightening my hairpiece and placing my shako upon it. “All Shipshape and Bristol Fashion. And let’s kiss those tears away.”
“I know I’m a bit of a mess,” I say, beginning to blubber. “Why do you bother with me, Richard?”
He laughs. “Because I love you, Jacky. You are the light of my life. Now, you stay at headquarters and out of trouble, you hear me? You’re in this, too, and given your past behavior, well . . .”
I put my arms around him and my tears are kissed away.
I love you, too, Richard. One last kiss, Richard, one last one, oh please . . .
And then we turn and head back to our duty.
As I mount up and return to headquarters, all disconsolate and full of grim foreboding, an old Irish song taught to me by Mairead McConnaughey comes unbidden into my head.
I know where I’m going,
And I know who’s going with me
I know who I love,
But the Lord knows who I’ll marry...
Chapter 6
Deep in the dark of the night I hear a distant rumble of artillery. I cringe and burrow further down into the covers and pull the pillow over my head. It does not shut out the sound.
In the military there is a term called “four o’clock courage.” It means that, while it is easy to feel brave and hopeful on the eve of battle, when you are eating and drinking with your friends in the glow of a warm fire and good fellowship, things tend to look a lot different in the cold light of the pre-dawn when, alone and fearful, you must climb out of a warm and safe bed to confront what is sure to come. The soldier who can do that and not quiver and shake is said to possess “four o’clock courage.”
That is all very well. However, I, Jacky Faber, do not have that kind of courage, and never have. In fact, I have very little of any kind of courage at all.
I burrow deeper, but—heavy sigh—I throw off the covers and get up to dress and face the coming day, the butterflies in my cowardly belly in full flight.
Shivering, I climb into my Royal Navy gear, which Higgins had laid out for me the night before. If grim Death does find me today, I prefer to go off with him in Navy blue. I do not bother with the wig. What good would it do me today? My own hair will have to serve whether I end up at the Pea
rly Gates or at the Gates of Hell.
At least I won’t be buried at sea, I think as I pull on my boots. That’s some consolation.
With sword rattling at side, shako somewhat askew on head, I go next door to tap on Higgins’s door. He is, of course, already up and has procured from somewhere some good hot coffee and small sweet cakes, which do much to restore my spirits. In the soft light of a lantern, we share a battlefield breakfast.
“You will go to be with Mr. Scovell?”
“Yes, I think that would be the best place for me. The man is absolutely amazing in his ability to crack enemy codes. He has given me a relatively simple message to try to break, and I believe I just about have it.”
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small leather-bound notebook and shows me some meaningless figures written thereupon. Under them are some words in French, undoubtedly parts of the deciphered message.
“Dear Higgins,” I say, with a fond smile on my face and a hand on his shoulder. “Verily, it is just the place for you and your fine mind.”
“And you, Miss?” he asks, returning the notebook to his vest pocket. “I advise caution, and I hope this time that advice will not be in vain.”
“Don’t worry, Higgins. Remember, you are talking to Jacky Faber, Committed Coward. I shall be all right. I will go to headquarters with you and stand by Wellesley’s side, whether he wants me there or not. It is, after all, where my orders directed me to be, and where I should be safe. Generals seldom die in battle, and neither do their aides-de-camp.”
“Well, that is to be hoped,” says Higgins, a bit doubtfully. “Shall we go, Miss?”
“Yes, Higgins, lead on.”
We exit our wing of what I have come to call the Hotel Vimeiro, and I go to the stable to collect my mount, whom I have named Isabella, she being a pretty little thing, while Higgins goes off to join Mr. Scovell.
