by L. A. Meyer
"Now what the hell are you going on about, putain?" sneers the Sergeant. "You call for help and I'll just let everybody know about you. And they'll join in the fun, too. Now let us get on with it." He takes his hand from his belt and his trousers drop to the top of his gaiters. He shoves me to the ground, then puts his hand on the waist of my pants and tugs and then...
...then there is a dull thump! as the butt end of Corporal Laurent's musket hits the back of the Sergeant's head and he pitches forward, out cold as a dead cod.
I struggle away from him and manage to get back to my feet, as Laurent gives the fallen man's head another solid whack, just to make sure he's out.
"Tas de merde," sneers Laurent, sending a gob of spit in the Sergeant's direction.
"Laurent," I ask, regaining my breath and pulling my pants back up, but still despairing of the situation. "What did you hear him say?"
"Hear him say what ... M'sieur?" asks Laurent, looking at me with a sly smile. The moonlight glints off the white of his teeth. "Non. I heard nothing. Just that drunk cochon going on about some ... girl or other. Was that it, Lieutenant? Did you take his girl and he did not like it?"
"Um..."is all I can come up with. I have come to know that Laurent is sharp, very sharp indeed. I also know that now ... he knows ... and so do the others. He then gives a low whistle and the other poachers—Guerrette, Vedel, and Michaud—appear from the bushes, their muskets at Trail Arms, and they gather around me.
"Ah, well ... Still, he shouldn't have messed with an officer," says Laurent. "He could be shot for that, or, at the very least, brought up on charges."
But we look at each other and both know that cannot happen. If the Sergeant is arrested, he will tell, and then it will be me who is shot, not him.
"What to do, Laurent?" I ask, realizing that my life is now in his hands, and in the hands of my men.
"Do not worry, Lieutenant. If it pleases you, go to your tent. We will take care of this."
"Why would you do this for me, lads," I ask, suddenly very weary, "knowing what you know?"
"Who else would we want to lead us? Something like that?" says Laurent, kicking the leg of the man who lies in the dirt at our feet. "Non. We will stick with you, Lieutenant, till the end."
"Thank you, all of you," I say, and turn away. What must be done will be done, I know that; but I don't really want to know what is going to happen to the Sergeant. Not now, anyway.
I look down and notice that my drummer boy orderly is here, too, and that he has missed nothing. Christ! I heave a great sigh and throw my arm around his thin shoulders and say, "Let us go to our beds, Denis Dufour. It has been a long, long day."
Uh ... hullo, Jaimy ... I hope you are getting well and would not be too disappointed in me and how I have been behaving. Y'see, we go into battle soon, and who knows what's gonna happen? Both Jean-Paul and my own poor self could be lyin dead on some German field tomorrow. So, a glass of wine in a dismal bar, and just a few kisses here ... and, well, there, too ... what does it hurt? It ain't like I gave myself totally to him, no, Jaimy, not that. I'm still your lass till you tell me differently. But there are other games of love that two people who like each other a lot can play ... really, just a little of me and my usual messing around ... you know ... oh, never mind. But ... I gotta say this about Jean-Paul de Valdon—never have I been handled more gently, never have I been touched with more tenderness and love.
G'night, Jaimy. I pray daily for your recovery. And I have been good ... well, mostly.
Chapter 38
It took us three days to get our Grand Army across the river, but, at last, we did it. It is the twelfth of October, and I realize with a shiver that the battle is getting closer.
Bardot, nursing what seems is a hangover of heroic proportions, rides by my side for a while as we drive into Germany.
"Damn, Bouvier, where were you last night?" he grumps.
"Otherwise occupied, in affaires d'amour, mon Capitaine," I say, not entirely lying, for once.
"Well, good. I hope she was sweet. Damn! My head feels like it's going to explode!"
I reach back into my knapsack and pull out a bottle, draw the cork, and hand it to him.
"Here, my good Captain Bardot. One good swig and no more, else you shall fall out of your saddle and be shamed."
"What is it?"
"A simple palliative. You will see. One swallow, then hand it back. On your honor."
"Um. Like candy," he says, after taking a healthy slug and handing back the bottle.
"Others have said that," I say, stuffing it back in my sack.
It was a mixture of Bottle Number One and Number Two from my room back at 127, rue de Londres in Paris. The two policemen did not drink it all, so before I left I combined the contents of the two bottles to take with me.
"Matter of love, eh?" asks the rapidly improving Captain Bardot. "Say, you wouldn't happen to have a sister, would you?"
"A sister, M'sieur?" Uh, oh ... I give a slight cough and say, "Yes, actually my twin. Her name is Amy. But she is far away, back in America."
A puzzled look comes over his face, as if he were trying to remember something. "I wouldn't be quite so sure of that, Bouvier."
Just then General Charpentier's aide-de-camp rides up and hands me a message. "For l'Empereur. And hurry." I take it and am off at a brisk canter, grateful for the interruption of that conversation.
On my order, my squad of Clodhoppers has kept the five horses we took from the Prussian cavalry, and the poachers, my elite corps, has, well ... acquired ... a wagon from somewhere and we have hitched two of the horses to it to carry all our tents and gear. Now my men do not have to carry heavy bundles on their backs, and for that they are most grateful. Happy, too, is Papa Boule, who gets to ride in the wagon as well—he was having trouble keeping up with the march, and I know it distressed him to know that he was slowing us down.
Of the other horses, Laurent claims one for himself, and that is as it should be, because he is the corporal. The other two horses are passed about among the men, so that each can ride at least part of the time.
Denis Dufour drives the wagon, and I know he takes great pride in it. Part of that job is finding grain and suitable grazing for the horses at night, and he has managed to do it.
None of them has yet said a word about that night with the Guards' Sergeant, but I notice that the poachers pitch their tents very close to mine now and Dufour has gotten himself a pistol and he sleeps with it close by his side. Before I climb into my own bedroll for the night, I make sure his weapon is on half cock so he doesn't hurt himself with it.
Today, I call Laurent to my side and we ride along together for a bit. Then I ask him straight out. "What did you do with the Sergeant? I do have to know."
He grins, his long, straight brown hair blowing about his face. "Well ... M'sieur ... you know we were right close to the river at that camp. So what we did was pick him up, throw him across a horse, and take him down there to get rid of him."
I stiffen. Have I caused yet another death? Is this one more mark against my soul?
It turns out it is not.
"The bridge builders had a lot of rafts down there, but since they were done with their job, we figured they didn't need them anymore and they surely wouldn't miss just one, so we loaded the Sergeant on a small one, cut it loose, and sent him off down the river."
"Was he alive when you did that?"
"Oui. He started to come to, so we whacked him again, and then took some rope and tied him spread-eagle on the logs. He's probably about twenty miles downstream by now."
I begin to relax a bit. "Very crafty, Laurent," I say, smiling in appreciation of his cleverness.
He chuckles. "Right. When he gets off that raft, he'll be deep in German territory, wearing a French uniform. How he will explain that, I do not know. Nor care."
Now that we are close to the day of battle, almost all of my duty consists of carrying messages to Napoléon, and orders from him to his comma
nders, as he is, without question, the center of command. When I ride up to the column he is in, I see other messengers coming in from all directions, and I know they bear intelligence reports on the situation as it develops. Based on the intelligence that is being gathered, the Emperor has divided his force, sending Marshals Davout and Bernadotte, with their III Corps and I Corps, north toward a place called Auerstädt, while the rest of the force, including me and my Clodhoppers, drive toward a town called Jena, with Marshal Lannes's V Corps in the lead. I know all this because I was there as the orders were given.
Today, as Mathilde and I clatter up with the message from General Charpentier, I can see the Emperor riding at the head of his Imperial Guard. I get in as close as I can and wave the message over my head, and I am called forward to place the sealed letter in an officer's hand. Then I pull Mathilde over to the side to trot along and await further orders. I see the officer reading the message, whereupon he kicks up his horse and falls in next to Napoléon. He speaks to him and the Emperor nods, and then, incredibly, looks over at me and motions me to approach.
"Our bold young American," he says, as I draw close. "I remember you."
"Th-thank you, Excellency," I stammer.
"I do not want to stop to have a message written out. You are known to me now. Simply ride to Murat and inform him that we have received word that Marshal Lannes is about to take the town of Jena, and that he is to have his cavalry ready to move on my order. Do you have that, Lieutenant?"
"Aye, Sir ... er ... Yes, Your Excellency."
"Good. Then go."
I wheel Mathilde around and gallop off, gasping for breath.
Within an hour I am in Marshal Murat's camp. He is far enough ahead of the others to be able to stop and bivouac.
"I have a message from the Emperor for Marshal Murat," I announce to his aide-de-camp.
"Then hand it over."
"I cannot. It is verbal. The Emperor was busy and could not stop to have a message written out."
The officer raises his eyebrows. "You have come a long way on this campaign, Lieutenant, to be trusted so," he says, and then waves me into Murat's tent. I take off my shako and go in.
The Marshal sits at his table, having dinner with several of his officers. He looks up and says, "Ah. Our very small messenger. Bouvier, is it? Well, what news, Lieutenant?"
"My compliments, Sir, and the Emperor has directed me to tell you that Marshal Lannes is about to take the town of Jena, and he requests that you have your fine cavalry ready to move on his order."
"Ha!" says Murat, striking the table with his fist. "That is very good news! We are about to be in it now, for sure! Gentlemen, stand to your glasses. Steward, a glass for our young Mercury!"
A glass of wine is quickly put in my hand.
"To victory," cries Murat, raising his glass.
"To victory," we all echo, and drain our glasses.
I am dismissed and told to return to my unit, as Murat has no further messages to send this day.
I get back on my long-suffering Mathilde, pat her neck, and promise her rest and oats very shortly. I start back to the Sixteenth Fusiliers at an easy trot. I'm thinking about getting something to eat myself and just what I would give for a good hot bath, when another rider comes up and falls in beside me on my left.
I look at him and say, "Jean-Paul. It is so good to see you, but be careful. We are out in the open here."
"I know," he says. "I just want to ride here beside you for a while." I notice that he wears my silk scarf about his neck. "And I want to tell you that yesterday was the greatest day of my life, and that I love you and I will—"
"You will what, Frenchy?"
Uh-oh.
Another rider has joined us, pulling up on my right, and speaking in English. I see Jean-Paul's eyes flash in anger as he reaches for his sword.
"No, Jean-Paul, don't. He ... he is an old friend, from back in the States." Damn! Just what I need!
"An 'old friend'? Is that all I am to you, Jacky?" asks Randall Trevelyne. "I am wounded to the core."
I sigh and say, "Lieutenant Jean-Paul de Valdon, may I present Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne. Randall, Jean-Paul."
"Not necessary, Jacky, my dear. You see, we know each other, as we are in the same division, same Officer's Mess. Pity. We were actually becoming friends. Until this."
It is plain that Jean-Paul does not like this intrusion, and it is equally obvious that Randall knows that full well.
"So, Valdon, what mischief has she been up to this time? You been getting any of this?" says Randall, hooking his thumb in my direction. "Hmmm?"
Jean-Paul, while not entirely fluent in English, gets the sense of what Randall has just said. Randall caps his little speech by reaching over and putting his hand on my upper thigh.
"Get your filthy hand off her!" cries Jean-Paul, enraged. His sword comes all the way out now, as does Randall's. They wheel their horses about to face each other, swords raised.
"What, Froggy?" taunts Randall. "You think your hand is the only one that has been there?"
"Randall," I hiss. "You are going to ruin everything! You are going to get me killed! Please! Back off, both of you! Jean-Paul, please, I beg you!" I bury my face in my hands and start bawling. Oh, God! Two of my dearest friends in all this world are going to destroy me! I cry out in despair.
Their swords cross, but my tears drain the fight right out of them. They stick the swords back in their sheaths and just sit in their saddles, glaring at each other.
I snort back my tears and plead, "Please, Randall ... Jean-Paul ... please go back to your division. Please be friends. Please. For me."
With that, I kick up Mathilde and gallop back to the Sixteenth Fusiliers, the Clodhoppers, and my tent, leaving my two young men behind me, their heads down. I need a drink, some food, and a good dose of Bardot's cheerful company.
Chapter 39
This morning, as I crawl out of my tent and stretch, I look about and see nothing but mist, a deep gray fog, all around me. Dufour strikes the tent, rolls it up, and stows it in the wagon with the others.
After we all eat, I say, "All right. Let's go, boys," and we move out with the rest of the Grand Army of France.
"Looks like we'll be in it soon, Bouvier," says Captain Bardot. We both hear the distant rumble of artillery to the north.
"It does, indeed, Sir." My usual cowardly butterflies begin their fluttering in my belly. I reassure myself that, as a messenger, I will not be on the front line of battle, but, rather, back at command posts, and so, pretty safe.
Once again, we are approached by a rider. Here I go again...
"You, Bouvier. Report to the Emperor's staff. He is much in need of messengers. Don't expect to come back till the battle is over. Go now."
"Oui, M'sieur," I say, as the rider pulls his horse's head over and is off.
Bardot chuckles as he pulls out yet another long thin cigar from inside his jacket and lights it—he seems to have an inexhaustible supply of the vile things. "Looks like things are going to get hot, Bouvier. Very hot, indeed."
I nod and say to him, "My men will be attached to your unit. Please look out for them as best you can."
"Of course. No evil, hard-nosed Sergeant for Bouvier's Own, by God! I will assign them to my best man." He grins around his cigar and sticks out his hand and I take it. "Good luck, Jacques. You are a good lad."
"And you have been just the best of company, Sir," I say, giving his hand what I hope is a manly squeeze, my own small hand feeling puny in his grasp. "Bonne chance. Adieu, Capitaine Bardot."
I turn Mathilde around and return to my Clodhoppers, who struggle along the uneven road. Laurent looks at me expectantly as I come upon them.
I pull up next to him and lean over so that only he can hear what I have to say. "Laurent. I am being sent off. You are the leader now, so be a good one and watch out for your men. Place your poachers where they will do the most good. And especially take care of the boy. For me, you will do this
?"
Laurent looks me in the eye. "Oui, I will do that, yes." He sits up straight on his mount and looks back over his troops, then he turns his gaze to me. "You, too ... M'sieur ... be careful of yourself. You are small, yet a bullet could still find you. And men are not the only ones who die in war."
I look at him for a while, sizing up the man. Ah, Laurent, you are a sly one. In another place and time, perhaps when on my ship the Emerald, one such as you would have made the very finest Captain of my Marines, but no, we are not there, and we never will be. We are here. I shake those thoughts out of my head and just smile and say, "Thank you, Laurent. I will address the lads now."
I pull Mathilde to the center of the squad and I say, "Men, I have been detached to the Emperor's staff until the war is over. You are assigned to Captain Bardot's company—he's up ahead. See, that is him right there. Follow him and he will tell you where to go and what to do. I will try to get back to you after the fighting is done. Dufour, my knapsack and bedroll, please. Thank you, lad. And please, Denis, don't look so downhearted."
I ruffle the boy's hair as he ties my gear to the back of my saddle. He is not happy with this, I know.
"Au revoir, you pack of ignorant plowboys. I could not have found better men to serve with!" I say in parting, "We shall meet again, I just know it! Vive les Clodhoppers! Vive la France!"
I pull my shako down low over my eyes and leave then so they won't see the tears about to spill.
As I ride away, I hear their cheer of Vive la France! Vive Lieutenant Bouvier!
Reporting to Napoléon's staff, I am assigned to a pool of messengers. All of them are like me—young and small and quick. We ride alongside the moving column in a group, and when our names are called, we ride forward to take our orders and then are off at the gallop. There are six of us here now—others are off on their missions. We talk among ourselves as we wait to get news from the riders as they return. I hear Lannes has moved the V Corps...
