Viva Jacquelina!

by L. A. Meyer

  “Is she alive, Joachim?” I hear someone above me say.

  “Sí, comandante.”

  “Bueno. Pick her up and take her to the hospital. It is right over there.”

  I feel myself being lifted and carried. The eyelids finally flutter open and I see Montoya above me, astride his horse, his black sombrero framing his face.

  I twist my head and look about, all confused. There is a large jagged hole in the road where that shell hit . . . and, oh, no . . . there lies my poor Isabella on her side, her neck stretched out, and all the rest of her quite still and, I know, quite dead. Oh, I only knew you for a little while, but you were a good little mare. If there is a heaven for horses, I hope you are there, little one, and I hope the grass is green.

  As all of my shaky senses return, I realize a strong young man has his right arm under my legs at the knees, and the other arm around my shoulders, while my head lolls about, my shako dangling from my neck on its leather strap.

  I start to squirm.

  “No . . . no, I am all right,” I protest. “I don’t have to go to hospital. Just let me down, please, just let me get back. I must find—”

  “The battle is over, Miss, and we have won the day, gracias a Dios,” says Montoya. He is no longer smiling.

  “But then, why?”

  “Because I think you will want to go there, Senhorita,” says the very rough man, with some kindness in his voice. “The man who kissed you the other day when I sat at his table. I found him simpático. He is in there. With many others.”

  I gasp. Richard!

  I wriggle out of the man’s grasp and discover that I am standing in front of a large warehouse. From the sounds of pain and agony coming from within, I know exactly what it is—a battlefield hospital, little more than a charnel house, a place of butchery and despair and death.

  I meet Sergeant Bailey coming out, supporting a wounded Archie MacDuff, who has a bandage around his head, through which blood is seeping. Seeing me, he says, “Over to the left. Fourth bed. Sorry, Miss.”

  I rush in the door and am once again greeted with the cries and groans of the wounded. I had been in a hospital like this on the battlefield of Jena, where I said my last goodbyes to Captain Bardot. Please, Lord, don’t let it be like that this time, please.

  There he is. He lies on his back on a rude cot. There is a cut to his head and blood covers half his beautiful face, but that worries me less than the bloodstain on his left side just below the rib cage.

  “Oh, Richard,” I sob. “Can you hear me?”

  His eyelids flutter open and fix on me. He smiles.

  “Hello, Princess. Good to see you.”

  “Richard, dear, I am so sorry!”

  “Ah. It is but a scratch.” He moves a bit and groans, proving it is not just a scratch. “Did we win?”

  “Yes, the day is ours.”

  “My men?”

  “I saw Sergeant Bailey and Private MacDuff outside. They are all right. I don’t know about the others. I think most came through.”

  “That’s good, I . . . I . . .” his eyelids droop and fall shut.

  No, Richard, don’t die!

  A man stands next to me and, seeing my concern, says, “We have given him something. For the pain.”

  “Will he live, Doctor? Oh, please say he will!”

  “He might. And you should get that scrape patched up.”

  A cut on my forehead, which I had not yet noticed, persists on bleeding into my eye. Must have happened when I hit the dirt.

  I wipe it away and say, “Never mind that. What will happen to him now?”

  “HMS Tortoise is being made over into a hospital ship. As soon as we fill her up with wounded, she’ll be off for Britain. Then we’ll fill up HMS Guardian, too.”

  In spite of its distress, my mind clears and turns prac-tical.

  “Do you want to make an easy one hundred pounds?” I ask the surgeon.

  “I would not mind it.”

  The man has a notebook and he is writing in it—the names of the recently dead, no doubt.

  “Please give me something to write on.”

  He lifts his eyebrows but passes me the book and pencil, and I write furiously in it. When I pass it back to him, I say, “Make sure this man gets on the first ship and is well cared for. Afterwards, get him to this address, such that he comes under the care of a Dr. Stephen Sebastian. Present this note and you’ll receive your one hundred pounds. You will see words to that effect right there.”

  “How do I know they’ll pay?” he asks, skeptical.

  I open my jacket, pull up my shirt, and open my money belt. I take out three gold coins.

  “Here’s twenty pounds as earnest money. If this man dies on the way, you’ll still have that. If he lives till you can deliver him, then you shall have the additional hundred. How can you lose?”

  The man shrugs. “I reckon I can’t. Here! You, there! Get this man on a stretcher. Careful, now!”

  The stretcher is brought and Lord Allen is laid upon it. The movement, with its accompanying pain, wakes him up and he speaks to me again.

  “Will you marry me, Jacky? I’m not joking this time,” he says with a low chuckle. “If I recover from this . . .”

  I pat his arm, tears streaming down my face. “When you get well, my gallant Dragoon, you may ask me that again. You’re going to the Tortoise and then to Dr. Sebastian. It’s been arranged.”

  He manages a wan smile. “Thank you, Princess. Hate to fall under the tender care of a navy sawbones.”

  “No, Richard, we can’t have that.” Tears run down my face as I grasp his hand in both of mine and hold it to my lips.

  The stretcher bearers lift their burden, and as he is borne away, he says, “Oh, Princess, you have made it all worthwhile.”

  I stumble out of the hospital, intending to follow him as far as I possibly can, but I do not get to do that.

  Ensign Connell appears at my side.

  “Lieutenant Faber, the General wants to see you. Now.”

  “What?” I am confused.

  “Come quickly, Miss. There’s hell to pay. General Wellesley has been relieved of his command.”

  Chapter 8

  “It cannot be true, Tim,” I say, as Ensign Connell and I hurry along to headquarters. “Wellesley has just won a great victory.”

  “It is true, nonetheless, Miss. General Burrard has taken over. And you are bleeding, Miss.”

  Oh my. Old Nosey’s nose must really be in a twist!

  “How is he taking it?” I ask. We are coming up on Hotel Vimeiro.

  Ensign Connell cuts me a nervous glance. “About as you’d expect.”

  But this could be good for me, I’m thinking. After all, I was assigned to Wellesley’s staff . . . Maybe if he is sent back to England, I would go with him, and then I could look after Richard! Maybe . . .

  “In fact, not well at all,” says Connell. “Best keep your head down when we go in there.”

  Hmmm . . .

  “What was the Butcher’s Bill for this little battle?” I ask, dreading the answer. “Have you heard?”

  “It seems we suffered around seven hundred killed or wounded. The French have about twice that.”

  Damn. Carnage, indeed . . . Many a mother shall weep, many a sweetheart shall moan, be they French, Spanish, or English.

  The open door looms before us. We look at each other and hesitate before entering the den of what is sure to be the fiercest and most angry of bears. The sounds from within are not encouraging.

  “Goodbye, Ensign Connell,” I say, as he prepares to go off to join the coterie of messengers. “It was a pleasure knowing you. I do not think I will be seeing you again.” I lean into him and put a kiss upon his cheek. “I wish you well.”

  “Goodbye, Miss, I cannot tell you, but—”

  I don’t listen for the rest. A light kiss from La Belle Jeune Fille Sans Merci, as well as a bloody one from Bloody Jack herself, should be enough for any young ensign, I figure.
Sucking in my breath, I plunge into the room.

  Everything is in turmoil. Junior officers fly about the room. Charts and maps are being rolled and stuffed into tubes. Papers are stacked, wrapped in oilcloth, and tied up with twine, and in the midst of it all stands General Sir Arthur Wellesley, ramrod straight, and in a state of obvious rage.

  “Stupidity! Rank stupidity! The braying jackasses of Britain have done it again! Hurrah! Hurrah for rank asininity!” he cries, waving his arms about. “Stand up, ye gods of misrule! Stand up and cheer because Britannia bends her knee to you!”

  If I did not know the man was of an abstemious nature, I would swear he was blind drunk. I duck down through the crowd and find Higgins with Mr. Scovell, collecting their own papers into folders.

  “Higgins! What is going on?”

  Higgins looks up.

  “Good to see you, Miss. You have something of a nasty scratch there. We must see to that.”

  “Later, Higgins. What’s up?”

  “General Wellesley has been relieved by General Burrard.” Here he lowers his voice. “A man of very little experience in the field. That is bad enough, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Insult to injury, Miss. We have just been informed that General Dalrymple, the other gentleman you might have seen hanging about of late, has just signed the Treaty of Cintra.”

  “And that would be the surrender of General Junot’s French forces?”

  “Ah, no, Miss,” says Higgins. “The treaty states that the defeated French forces, with all guns and all of their loot, are to be transported back to France in British ships.”

  “WHAT? Oh, God! And then?”

  “And then they’ll be let go to do what they will do. They are to be debarked at Toulon.”

  “But that is absolutely crazy! The French were on the run! They faced either complete surrender or else slaughter! Junot was ready to capitulate!”

  “I know, Miss. We all know. Most of all, General Wellesley knows.”

  Seething with indignation, I say, “I have been ordered to report to him. I must go.”

  “Careful, Miss,” warns Higgins. “I have been ordered to accompany Mr. Scovell back to Britain. As for you—”

  That’s all I hear as I plunge back through the crowd to worm my way to Wellesley’s enraged side.

  “Sir!” I say. “You sent for me?”

  He looks down and sees me standing there, filthy, dusty, and a bit torn in the face.

  “Ah,” he says, calming himself a bit. “Here’s one who looks like she’s been through a battle, rather than lounging about here at headquarters and taking her ease like the rest of you sorry lot.”

  “I’m sure all here have done their duty, Sir,” I reply. “The shells fell all around us, and we know they are not at all selective in whom they hit.”

  He looks at me curiously. “Well said, girl. I’m beginning to think . . . but never mind.” He crosses to a desk and points at a spot on one of the few remaining maps spread out thereon. “Here is the city of Madrid, in Spain, of course. You are to go there . . .”

  With sinking heart, I realize I will not be going back to England with Higgins and I will not be any help to Lord Allen, beyond what I have already done.

  “ . . . and gather information on the forces and the political climate you find there. I must perforce go back to England to clean up this mess, but I shall be back, believe me, and I will need all the good information I can get about Madrid. Information that will be obtained by you, Lieutenant Faber. Comandante Montoya has agreed to take you there, under cover of night, and he will be your contact during the time you spend in that city. Do you understand?”

  Yes, I’m thinking, I understand that all my dreams have turned to dust, and now I must do as you say.

  I hit a brace, nod, and bow, for I know there is nothing else. “Oui, mon générale,” I say, without thinking.

  Uh-oh . . .

  But he lets it pass, managing a slight smile and saying only, “Who knows where your loyalties lie, Miss Faber.”

  “They lie with my country and my friends, Sir. Of that you may be assured.”

  “Well, good. Be off with you, then. Montoya will want to leave shortly.” He turns from me to continue his enraged rant—Goddamn stupid, ass-kissing, suck-up bureaucrats. God damn them all to hell and back!—and I nod to Higgins and point outside and leave the room, much less hopeful than when I entered it.

  Higgins has a small pack open, and into it he is stuffing clothing and some other things—perfume, caps, underwear, spare dresses, both fine and lowly. No telling what I will need when I get to Madrid.

  Montoya leans against the wall, arms crossed, grinning at me as I make my preparations for departure. He could have waited outside, but he did not. The ill-bred brute has not removed his sombrero, either.

  “It is best you travel in simple clothing, muchacha, so you do not stand out on the way,” observes Montoya. “Plenty of time for finery in Madrid. You will see much of that there. The Majas and all.”

  We agree, although I don’t pursue the Maja thing just yet. There is a dressing screen in the room and I duck behind it to change. I shed my uniform and climb into my good old Lawson Peabody serving-girl rig—black shoes, hose, and skirt; white drawers and blousy shirt; and brown weskit cinched tight around my ribs. I leave my shiv in its sheath on my left forearm and I cover my short blond locks with my dark brunette wig so as to blend in better with the local populace. My pennywhistle is tucked in my vest, and all else I currently own goes into my seabag for Higgins to take back to England with him.

  That done, I step out and fluff up my now-black hair. Higgins places my black mantilla on my head and I wrap it around my shoulders and look to Montoya.

  He smiles in appreciation.

  “Much better, Señorita. You are now the muchacha campesina perfecta.”

  Higgins straightens up and prepares to take his leave, saying, “I do not wish to offend you, Senhor, but I must point out to you that even though she is entrusted to your care, she remains Crown Property and, as such, must be returned to us in the same condition as when she left.”

  He is not offended. He sweeps off his hat and bows low. “She shall be treated as the Sanctified and Holy Sister of My Soul in Our Common Struggle Against Tyranny.”

  Higgins and I exchange glances—as if we believe that for even a moment.

  “You will like Madrid, Miss. It is quite a lovely place, in spite of its being overrun with those French pigs. I was born and raised there.”

  “So you are actually Spanish, then?”

  “I am many things, mi querida, and being actually Spanish is one of them.”

  “So we can drop the Portuguese, then, Señor, and stick to the Spanish?”

  “Sí, Señorita.”

  “Bueno. I am easier in that language.”

  “It is, indeed, a loving tongue, full of the promise of romance.”

  Hmmm . . . Just who is this man?

  “Well, Señor Montoya, neither love nor romance is in the picture. It is duty that calls and we must go. Are you ready?”

  “Sí, Señorita,” he says, bowing and gesturing to the door.

  I turn to John Higgins and place my hands upon his chest.

  “Don’t worry about me, John. I have handled randy males before. I have money, clothes, and my shiv. This should be a rather easy assignment. Please give my compliments to Dr. Sebastian and Mr. Peel, and to my grandfather and any of my other friends you might happen to meet. Please write to Ezra and explain the situation. I have told you of my arrangements for Lord Allen. Please do what you can for him. Go now, John. Godspeed.”

  I push him out the door, sniff back a tear, and hand myself over to Comandante Montoya.

  “I am ready, Señor.”

  “Good. Will you require a coach? A carriage?”

  “No, mi patrón. Just a good horse and a regular saddle.”

  “Bueno. We shall be off, then.”

  Indeed we are, an
d as for what Fate has in store for me, I cannot imagine.

  Chapter 9

  The light from the campfire flickers on the faces of those of us gathered about. I sit on the ground with my legs pulled up against my chest, my arms around my legs, chin on my knees. We have just eaten a very acceptable mutton stew out of tin containers, washed down with copious quantities of tinto—the local red wine—drunk from wineskins held high over open mouths. The moon is high in the sky, sentries are posted, and the gentle strumming of a guitarra is heard in the warmth of the Iberian night. It had been decided, mainly by Montoya, that we should travel to Madrid in a small group of his most trusted men, so as not to attract unwarranted attention.

  “There are not only bandits out there, Señorita, but also bands of deserters from the French army, who can be even more dangerous than your common outlaw. It is best that we travel light.”

  And so we did travel.

  Montoya is stretched out beside the fire, picking his teeth with a sliver of wood and regaling me with tales of Madrid.

  “The beautiful River Tagus runs through the city. Here is a verse from a song that sings of her, little one.” He lifts his voice, a voice that is surprisingly soft for such a rough man.

  Yes, my hair is turning white,

  but the Tagus is always young,

  She flows through Madrid as the very blood of life,

  Till the end of all time.

  “You have something of the poet in you, Comandante,” I say. “May I ask what is your first name?”

  “If I can have yours, guapa, then thou shall have mine.”

  “I was born with the name Mary.”

  “Ah, Maria . . . How beautiful . . .”

  “But now I go by Jacky.”

  “I shall call you Maria. It is a name that sits more easily on my tongue,” he says, sidling up a little closer to me. “And please, sweet Maria, you must call me Pablo.”

  Hmmm . . . It seems it is time for a little diversion here.

  “Pablo, would you like for me to sing you a song?” I ask.

  “By all means, Maria. It would give me great pleasure.”