My Bonny Light Horseman: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, in Love and War

by L. A. Meyer

  "Je suis une vierge," I whisper. "Whether you want to believe that or not is up to you, mon cher."

  His eyes go wide. "What? You? Non! It is not possible!"

  "It is true, however." I wiggle deeper into the bed. "And I am promised in marriage to a Lieutenant James Fletcher, a British Naval officer who may, or may not, be still alive, and who might not even want me when I come back to him."

  "But the artillery captain...? The others...? How...?"

  I am getting very drowsy, but I manage to say, "There were no others. And as for him, do you remember the other night, after I painted your portrait? How you came back to this room and then fell fast asleep? Hmmm?"

  He thinks on that for a moment and then says, incredulous, "You ... you drugged me!"

  "Just a little," I say.

  "But why?"

  "I did not want to think of you awake all night watching my window when I was up to nothing wrong."

  Almost nothing...

  He stands there, his fingers still on his top trouser button. In the gloom, I hear him sigh and I think he hangs his head. "I am no good at any of this ... to be gulled by a simple girl ... I don't know. I just don't know..."

  "I don't know anything, either, Jean-Paul. All I know is that the night is growing chill and if you were to get in here beside me, it would give me great comfort."

  I feel the covers being drawn away as he slips in beside me. I can tell that his pants remain on.

  "Thank you, Jean-Paul," I murmur as I turn over and snuggle into him and lay my head on his chest. "You are a very good man and I am very fond of you."

  G'night, luv...

  Chapter 28

  I am still wrapped up in the covers as the dawn breaks and Jardineaux returns to the flat. Jean-Paul had wisely gotten up before and put his shirt, tie, and jacket back on.

  "This situation is no longer going to be productive for us, now that la Grande Armée is going to move. We've got to find another way to use her."

  Use me?

  "Use her, Sir?" asks Jean-Paul, now burdened with new things on his mind.

  I lower the covers such that my eyes peer out at Jardineaux.

  "I am convinced she had something to do with that debacle last night." I put on the innocent look, and he gazes at me, not believing it for a minute. Then he looks away and nods. "...but her information was good, very good, I will give her that. I would keep her next to de Groote, but he is suffering a bullet wound to his lower groin area and will not be leading any part of the Imperial Guard in Napoléon's new campaign ... nor will he be needing a mistress."

  "I am sorry for Marshal de Groote's pain," I say, pulling my knees to my chest, enjoying this last little bit of bedtime. "He was such a nice man."

  Another glare from Jardineaux. "Be that as it may, girl, but we must have more information on this coming conflict. Lord Wellesley will demand it."

  Lord Wellesley? Hmmm ... First time I've heard that name.

  He puts his hands behind his back and paces back and forth. "I believe I shall place her with a certain group of camp followers ... laundresses by day and companions for the men at night. It might prove useful. Monsieur de Valdon here holds a commission with the Light Cavalry so he will be on the march with la Grande Armée. He will be your contact. It is all very simple."

  "Sir, I must protest," sputters Jean-Paul, but I beat him to it in the way of protestation.

  I leap out of the bed, still clad only in my bustier, and point my finger in Jardineaux's face. "What? You must be mad! I am to be a laundress and scrub clothes all day and then let myself be covered by privates and sergeants by night? What use is that?"

  Jardineaux curves his lips into a cold smile. "The lower ranks sometimes know more than the generals—morale, state of readiness, and all that."

  I'm thinkin' hard and fast. How can I get out of this? Then I remember what Jean-Paul said last night about the line of couriers.... That's it!

  I take a deep breath. "You may think me a common trollop, but I am not and I will prove it to you. But for now, you'll just have to take my word for it."

  I jump to the window and fling it open. "I will see you both on the corner at six o'clock this evening, and then we'll see what we shall see!"

  With that, I am out the window and down the pipe, and across the street. It is still just dawning and the sight of a young girl dashing to the opposite side of the road in her underclothing would not be a rare sight around here. And then it's up another drainpipe and into my room.

  Gaining it, I survey the damage. The place is in disarray. The bed is askew and my chest is open with its contents scattered about. There are also a couple of men, policemen, I believe, asleep on the floor. I check their pockets for money—it is the Rooster Charlie Gang urchin in me, I know—and find a considerable amount, which is good. The two are, of course, lying right next to my now half-empty bottles of cognac. Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly...

  I take a pillowcase and begin stuffing things inside it—a few dresses, some underclothing, handkerchiefs, my burglar gear, a bonnet or two, one of the blankets from the bed, the remaining laced cognac poured into one bottle and tightly corked, and that's it—except for ... I crawl under the bed to retrieve the packet of money that I had shoved up under the mattress. That, and my shiv and sheath, which had been hidden in the same place.

  All that done, I take leave of my room. A pity, really, because I had come to like it, and the street, and the neighborhood and Paris and all that. But it's over. Time to move on.

  Taking two hundred francs from my stash, I wrap the bills in a piece of paper and then go out the door, down the stairs, my bag over my shoulder. Madame Gris is not yet out of the slammer—probably she's been charged with running a house of prostitution. I hope she enjoys her stay. At least I don't have to toss her my room key, nor two francs for my last visitor, the unfortunate General de Groote.

  I go out the door of 127, rue de Londres for the last time and head down to Café des Deux Chats. I am ravenous and tuck into breakfast with a certain passion—croissants, pastries, coffee, it all goes down the neck.

  As I linger over the second bowl of café au lait, I am gratified to see a young girl, whom I know on slight acquaintance, enter the café. I note that she, like me, has a bag packed. Before she can inquire at the cashier, I call, "Yvette," and wave her over to me. She sits at my table, and I signal for café au lait and rolls to be brought to her. When it comes, I hand her the envelope.

  "What will you do with it?" I ask.

  "Get as far away from here and Chez de Groote as I can," she answers. "I will go back to my village, and now I will have a good dowry with me. For that I thank you. There is a young man there named Philippe ... We have plans for a shop."

  "Good. I wish you the joy of it," I say as we finish our breakfast. "Now, if you could do one last thing for me?"

  "Oui, Mademoiselle...?"

  "Take my cloak here, put it on and my bonnet as well, and when you leave, cover your face and go to the right down rue de Londres. That is all you have to do. And you may keep the cloak and bonnet."

  "Of course, I shall be happy to do it. It was a lucky night when you came into my room. Au revoir."

  I pay for the breakfast, and the girl, now dressed in my gear, leaves. Peeking out, I notice that poor Armand is in hot pursuit of the decoy. I am glad it is not Jean-Paul who will get in trouble this time. I head out to the left, my bag over my shoulder.

  I know I am too young and too green to wear the uniform of the holy Imperial Guard, so I shall settle for something entirely different. Perhaps something that approximates the uniform of the Massachusetts militia, in honor of one Randall Trevelyne? I mean, how are these Frenchies gonna know what that looks like? Feeling free in the way of military fashion, I go for the blue Hussar's jacket with the thick gold braid across the front, good for both protecting against a sword slash as well as for concealing a female chest that might lie beneath.

  Telling the shopkeeper that
I am buying this uniform as a birthday present for my little brother who is the same size as me—Oh, won't Maman and Papa be so proud to see little Gaston dressed all fine as a little Grand Army soldier!—I continue fitting myself out.

  For headwear I have the choice of the common bicorne, a front-to-back thing that, to my eye, lacks elegance, or the helmet of a Cuirassier, which I find too heavy, even though I do like the long horse-tail plume that trails down the back. I could look quite dashing in that, but no, I settle on the bearskin shako of the Grenadiers, a high hat with braided festoon, metal shield, top patch, and plume. Yes, I think that will do quite nicely.

  Then on to tight blue breeches that have a lining strip of leather that runs up inside the thighs from one knee across the crotch and down to the other leg to the opposite knee. This is to prevent chafing from being in the saddle for too long on an extended march. It will also serve to conceal my lack of male equipment. A pair of fine, knee-high boots, and I am well fitted out. Yes, Madame, I will wear it out.

  A rolled overcoat to go behind me on the saddle, two pistols, an ammunition pouch, a small tent, military cloak, bedroll and knapsack, and the smallest cavalry saber, belt, and sheath complete my gear, and I am back on the street and off to the stables.

  "How much for that one?" I ask, pointing to a likely looking gelding.

  "Six hundred francs."

  "For someone who is about to ride out and fight for the honor of France, you would ask that?"

  The Gallic shrug yet again.

  "Yes, the honor of France, and all that, but still my family must eat, non? Now, here is a spirited little mare, her size just right for one such as you. Her name is Mathilde."

  I put my hand on her muzzle and she whinnies softly and tosses her head and I fall in love.

  "How much?"

  "Four hundred francs."

  "I don't know..."

  "With saddle."

  "Done."

  At six o'clock Mathilde and I walk slowly up rue de Londres. When I see Jardineaux and Jean-Paul standing on the corner of rue de Clichy, I put my heels to her and bring her up to a trot.

  They both look up as I approach. Jean-Paul, who knows me better, catches on first.

  "Oh, my God," he says, shaking his head.

  "Is this not better?" I ask of Jardineaux. "A galloper, a messenger who will carry orders back and forth between the battalions, privy to all that goes on, rather than just a common laundress?"

  He looks up at me. "Amazing."

  "You will have a system of couriers ready to carry back any useful information I might gather and give to M'sieur de Valdon. Is this not better than what you had planned?"

  Jardineaux nods, and what passes for a smile crosses his face. "Yes. It is much better."

  I look to Jean-Paul and lift my hand in salute. "I will see you on the march to war, Lieutenant de Valdon. Adieu."

  With that I turn and go up the street, heading north out of Paris, France.

  I am Jacky Faber, Midshipman and Acting Lieutenant in His Royal Majesty's Navy, and I am going north to join the French Army. What a crazy world this is.

  PART IV

  Chapter 29

  When Boney commanded his army to stand,

  He leveled his cannons all over the land.

  He leveled his cannons, his victory to gain,

  And slew my Light Horseman on his way coming home.

  I'm humming that cheerful little ditty as we clop along, heading for Boulogne where the Grand Army is massing before marching east across Flanders and then into the Rhineland.

  It is good to be back in harness again, feeling fit and tight in my new gear and astride my fine horse on yet another superb day. I give her an affectionate pat on the back of her neck as we press on. She really is a good-looking bay filly, with white boots on each leg and a white blaze down the center of her forehead. Her mane is darker, almost black, and I don't think I could have found a finer mount.

  One thing I regret is not getting more money out of Jardineaux before I left. I had spent most of my coin cache in outfitting myself, and in my haste to get out of Paris and escape the fate of being made laundress or worse, I had neglected to ask for more. I do have the money I got out of the pockets of those hapless policemen, but that is running out fast. Oh, well, I'll be seeing Jean-Paul sometime and I'll get more from him. After all, I do have to buy oats for Mathilde.

  My last extravagance was the purchase of a fiddle and bow, and oilcloth to protect them against the weather. I, of course, have my pennywhistle, and should worse come to worse, I can always get back into female clothes and work a few taverns, of which there are plenty about—this is not the American wilderness. To save what money I have left, and to toughen myself up for what is to come, I sleep out in the open most nights. The weather has been generally kind and I do not often have to put up my tent or stay at an inn.

  Last night I slept under some trees in an orchard. I gave Mathilde her oats in her nose bag, ate some bread with meat and cheese myself, and even had a little celebration with a small bottle of wine, for it was the second of October, eighteen hundred and six—my birthday, as it were. For the most part of my life, I had not known exactly when I was born, for it was part of the memories erased after the deaths of my parents and sister on That Black Day. I found out later from my grandfather, Reverend Alsop, when we met last year. He was astounded that I did not know that I was born in the small village of St. Edmund Standing-in-the-Moor in North Allerton, in the north of England, in the year 1790.... It was entered into the parish book, child, so I know. I was there...

  I am now officially sixteen years old. Funny, I had always assumed that I was born in London. I take out my penny-whistle, play my "Ship's Boy's Lament," then curl up in a ball, offer up some prayers for various people, then go to sleep, with Mathilde standing quietly beside me.

  ***

  As I get closer and closer to the grand encampment or bivouac, as the French would have it, I see more and more troops marching from all directions—Infantry, Fusiliers, Hussars, Grenadiers, Dragoons, Cuirassiers, Light Cavalry—there are soldiers everywhere, many pushing, pulling, or dragging what seems to be miles and miles of caissons bearing Napoléon's famous artillery. There are also supply wagons and camp followers and wagons full of laughing girls, and herds of cattle and sheep, and crates of chickens, ducks, and geese. And, I hate to say it, but there is a feeling of high excitement in the air, and it affects me, too.

  I rise in the stirrups as I come over the last hill on the approach to Boulogne and see the encampment laid out before me and am astounded. There are hundreds, thousands, of little white tents laid out in neat rows. Soldiers parade, far away, shouted orders are heard, and trumpets are blown.

  In the center of it all is a group of larger tents, and it is to that cluster of tents that I go.

  There are some guards at the perimeter of this cluster of tents, but they do not hinder my passage. I spy a man at a table, an officer of the Guards, by the look of him, so I hop off Mathilde, and trailing her reins behind me, I walk up to him.

  He wears small spectacles and is writing furiously in some journal.

  "Pardon, Monsieur," I say, as I walk up to him and salute, my hand to the brim of my shako. "But I am Cadet Jacques Bouvier, American, of the Massachusetts Militia, Third Brigade, here to volunteer as a galloper, Sir." I had thought about giving myself the stripes of a corporal or even a private because of my very obvious youth, but then I could not have gotten into the Officers' Mess and that's where the valuable information will be found.

  His weary eyes look up at me from over the top of his glasses. "American, eh? An' what in hell are you doing here?"

  "I am here to help repay the debt that the United States owes to France, Sir! Vive Lafayette! Vive l'Empereur! Vive la France!"

  "You have papers, boy?"

  "Yes, Sir." I pass them over. I did stay one rainy day at a cozy inn for the express purpose of making up these forgeries at a convenient dry table. With my
pen and brushes and colors and sealing wax I worked up an account of my time at the West Point Military Academy—I earned High Honors, of course—as well as a letter of introduction from a Colonel Randall Trevelyne, Third Militia. I think he would be pleased with the promotion. The whole thing is not as good as Higgins would have done, but it gets by.

  "You come all the way here to fight for France?"

  "There is little chance for military advancement in America right now, and that is what I seek. That and glory."

  He looks at me doubtfully. "Have you had your first shave yet, Cadet?" There are several other scribes by his side, and this gets a laugh from them.

  I decide to bristle at that. "I did not come here to be insulted, Sir. If you will give me the satisfaction of..."

  "Oh, be quiet, boy," he grumbles, shuffling through some papers. "Yes, the Sixteenth Fusiliers could use a messenger. Theirs fell off his horse last week and broke his damned neck. You shall be attached to them. Report to General Charpentier. You will find him over there—the big tent at the end of that row. Now go away."

  I give a short bow and say, "Thank you, Suh!" putting a bit of American Virginia accent into it. I mean, why not lay it on, for what do they know about America?

  I get back on Mathilde, for I know I will want to make a show of horsemanship before my new commanding officer. I trot down to the designated tent, where several officers are standing about, talking and smoking cigars.

  I ride up, wheel Mathilde around, and dismount, bowing low to the one I perceive to be the most senior officer. It occurs to me then that perhaps I was a bit hasty in arriving like that, as the dust from Mathilde's hooves settles over all who stand there.

  Well, too late now, I figure, as I salute and report, "Cadet Jacques Bouvier, Massachusetts Militia, Third Brigade, newly assigned to your unit, Sir, as messenger!"

  "I commend you for your promised service, boy," says General Charpentier, brushing at the sleeves of his deep blue coat. "But I do not thank you for the dust." He is a portly man, with whiskers, but his eye is sharp and keen, and it is trained on me.