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

by L. A. Meyer

  Amongst the dead and dying, amid the shrieking and the quiet, we find Chaisson and are glad to discover that his wounds are minor, and if infection does not set in, he should recover completely. I give him a pat on his shoulder and compliment him on his bravery and hope that he is comfortable. In fact, the doctors demand we haul him out of there to make room for others in more need. We do it and get Chaisson out to the wagon, and then I go back in to see if I can find word of Jean-Paul ... but it is not him that I find.

  As I corner a doctor to ask if he has word of a Lieutenant Jean-Paul de Valdon, he looks at a list he holds in his hand and says no. Then I feel Dufour, who has seldom left my side since my return, tugging at my sleeve.

  "What is it, Denis?" I ask, irritated, as I am so very, very tired, and really hurt, and sick of all this.

  "Look, Lieutenant," says Dufour, pointing to a man stretched out on a cot. "It is our Captain."

  What? Whose Captain?

  And then I see.

  Bardot? Oh, please, no!

  But it is.

  I rush to his side, sit down by him, and take his hand. His jacket has been taken off and lies on the ground next to him. His sword leans against the wall of the tent behind his head. His midsection is covered with blood. There is a doctor next to him looking at another man and I say, "Doctor...?" and he peers over at me and then down at Bardot. He shakes his head, and then walks away to the next cot.

  Of all of them, the one I thought the most indestructible!

  "Oh, Captain, I am so sorry!" I wail, and squeeze his hand and Bardot opens his eyes and looks at me.

  "Ah, Bouvier," he says, his voice hardly above a whisper. "Good to see you. Glad you made it through."

  I am unable to say anything.

  "I want you to have my sword, Bouvier. It's right there. And my jacket ... there are letters for my family in there ... and some money ... and for God's sake, stop crying."

  "I can't, Sir, I'm sorry."

  He sighs. "It's not so bad, this dying business. I am not in great pain, not like some of these poor devils. I am a soldier, after all, and I lived as one and now I die as one and that is as it should be—and my wound is on the front, so I die with some honor." He pauses, and then goes on. "Trouble is, as a soldier goes to leave this world, he always has some regrets—he still wants one more smoke, one more drink, one more song..." His breathing is becoming more labored and I know he is weakening. "...and one more girl."

  I give his hand a squeeze and rise.

  "Dufour," I say. "Go to my knapsack and bring me the bottle that is in it."

  While the boy scurries out to get it, I kneel down and reach into Bardot's jacket pocket, where I know he keeps his cigars and matches, take one, stick it between my lips and light it. Coughing, I slide it over Bardot's own lips. He clamps down on it with his teeth and takes a long, deep drag of it. "Ahhh...," he breathes, and slowly lets the smoke out.

  Dufour runs back in, clutching the bottle. I take it from him and say, "Go back out and get the lads. I need them here. To say good-bye to our Captain Bardot."

  Wide-eyed, he rushes back out to fetch the Clodhoppers, while I uncork the bottle, and put my arm under Bardot's shoulder to raise him up a bit so that he might drink from the opium-laced cognac that I hold to his lips.

  He manages to get some down.

  "Oh, that is good," he murmurs. I put the neck of the bottle once again to his mouth and lift it. He chokes, and some spills out over his chin, but some goes down his throat. This time, Bardot, drink as much as you want—it will ease your passage, my friend. It is not called Soldier's Joy for nothing. I suspect that similar potions are being poured down the necks of other sufferers here in this tent because the place grows quieter and quieter.

  "That's enough, Bouvier, thank you," he says, and I let him sink back down. Even though he grows paler and paler, the drink seems to have restored him a bit.

  He cuts his eyes to me and grins. "That's the smoke, and the drink, Bouvier. Can you provide the song ... and the girl?"

  My men come in and group themselves about the cot. Sorry, Captain ... sorry, M'sieur...

  Though I know their sentiments are sincere, I cut them short with, "Clodhoppers, form a screen about this cot and face outward, such that none can see in."

  Some look mystified, but Laurent does not, and he directs the rest to do my bidding.

  When I am looking at the backs of all of them, I start to sing to Bardot, very low, as I unbutton my jacket ... Plaisir d'amour, ne dure qu'un moment...

  Pleasure of love,

  Lasts but a moment long....

  I open my jacket and begin to unlace the front of my undershirt.

  "There is the song...," says Bardot, looking at me with all the intensity he can muster on his dying bed, "but where is the girl?"

  I finish undoing my shirt, baring my breast, while continuing to sing ... Chagrin d'amour, dure toute la vie...

  Pain of love,

  Endures the whole life long.

  "Ah," says Bardot, looking at me, his eyes glazed and amazed but still bright. "The girl at the tavern, with that boy..."

  "Yes, Bardot, that same girl," I say.

  He chuckles, shaking his head. "The last smoke, the last drink, the last song ... and now ... the last girl..."

  I again lift him up and he looks at me and he smiles ... he even manages a grin. "It is so very, very good to know ... Bouvier...," he whispers, such that only I can hear, "...that God has a sense of humor."

  I press his face to my chest, and he tries to lift his hand to touch my breast, but he is too weak and his hand sinks back down.

  I hope that this cheers you on your way, Captain Bardot. You were a good friend when I needed one, and I love you for it.

  I hold him there, tears streaming down my face, till I feel the life slip from him and then I lay him back down. With my two fingers, I bring his eyelids down to close his eyes for the last time, eyes that once had gazed fondly upon me, and upon this world.

  Rising, I button up my jacket. The Clodhoppers still stand looking away. Good boys ... All except Dufour, who in his youthful innocence did not turn around, and who did not miss a thing. He stands astounded.

  "Dufour," I say, the tears still coming on hard, "go find a stretcher. Lads, the Captain is dead. Go prepare another grave. Next to Dubois and Vedel. I pray that they all rest easy, being comrades in arms and all."

  There is no checkout, no paperwork, no nothing. What do they care about one more dead soldier? Nothing. I gather up Bardot's jacket and sword and I follow the stretcher with its sad burden out of that place.

  The grave is dug and Bardot laid in it, and Bouchard again takes up the shovel. I look down at Bardot's face and say, "Wait a moment," and go to my knapsack and pull out my remaining silk scarf. Kneeling, I kiss my fingertips and lean down into the grave and place them on Bardot's lips and say, "Good-bye, Pierre Bardot, my Bonny Light Horseman." Then I spread the kerchief over his face. "All right, Bouchard, but, please, gently at first."

  He picks up a shovelful of dirt and lightly sprinkles it in, and then another, and another. The ones to follow come quicker and not so light, as the job must be done. I turn my face away, unable to watch.

  When the last of the dirt is formed into a mound and I am about to rise, I hear a great pounding of horses' hooves and look over to the road where a column of mounted Imperial Guards is marching by not twenty feet away.

  They pass by, and then comes a carriage—the carriage, the one with the big N surrounded by golden garlands of acanthus embossed on the sides. I stay on my knees next to the grave, thinking not to be noticed by the high and the mighty, and not caring overmuch about any of all that at this moment, when I hear a general halt called.

  Reins are pulled in and horses snort, and the procession comes to a stop, plainly upon the orders from someone in the coach.

  Then I hear a voice that has now come to be somewhat familiar say to someone inside, "Look. It is our bold American messenger. The o
ne who led the charge of the Cavalry. Come here, Lieutenant!" he calls to me. "I have one more message for you to deliver!"

  An Imperial Guard officer leaps off his horse, strides up to me, and says, "L'Empereur wishes to speak with you! Get up, put on your shako, and get over there!"

  I get to my feet before he can kick me and I put my hat upon my head, fasten the strap under my chin, and walk over to the carriage and stand there and salute. I am unsteady on my feet, for I have not slept for more than an hour in the last two nights.

  The door to the coach opens, and he looks down at me and says, "I see that you mourn for a friend..."

  I nod and say nothing.

  "I am sorry, but he and many others died today for the glory of France. It is how we all, as soldiers, hope to go someday."

  Again I nod.

  "I think you have had enough of battle for a while, Lieutenant. I will send you with a message ... to the Empress ... in Paris."

  "Oui, Excellency," I say, and lift my dirt-covered and tear-streaked face to him. "But first, if I may say good-bye to my men..."

  The door flies open and a man looks out and shouts, "You would make the Emperor of France wait upon you? Incredible! You get yourself—"

  "Monsieur," interrupts Napoléon, and I can see his gray eyes flash in anger. Monsieur immediately falls silent. "You are a very good secretary, and I value your services, but you have very little idea of what holds an army together, what makes some men follow others into battle. You will be quiet. I do not need anyone to protect me from the honest words of my men."

  The secretary, very chastened, slumps back into his seat.

  To me, Napoléon says, "Go say farewell to your men and then come back here."

  I salute and turn away to return to my Clodhoppers. As I go, I can hear Napoléon say, "Meneval. Take a letter: My dearest Joséphine ... I send this messenger to you to bear the news of a glorious victory that I dedicate in honor of you, dear one..."

  "Clodhoppers. Form up," I say when I get back to them. "The cruel war is over but still you need to report back to your division for mustering out, and I must go in a different direction. I am being sent to Paris, and I will probably not see you again."

  They get themselves in a line, muskets at Parade Rest.

  "Dufour. Go unsaddle my mare and put my gear on one of the captured horses. Mathilde is weary from dragging my sorry self all over this field and needs a rest. And don't look so unhappy, boy—you survived this battle, after all, and many did not."

  He goes to do it and I address the others. "Men. You have served me and your country well, and now it is ended. I heartily advise you to go back to your village to spend the rest of your days there and vow that you will never join any army ever again. I know that some of you will do that and some of you will not, but that is up to you, not me. I thank you for your service and your kind protection of me."

  I take a deep breath and start at the end of the line. I shake each hand and give each a kiss on the cheek. It is allowed, in France, for men to kiss each other on the cheek.

  "Michaud, Simon, thank you both. Lambert ... Guerrette ... Gobin ... be sure to tell the people of your village of the bravery of Vedel and Dubois ... break the news to their families as gently as you can. Chaisson, you are able to stand, and it gives me joy to see that ... Bouchard ... Pannetier ... Bertrand ... go back ... go back and be the good plowboys you are. Papa Boule, return your lads to the village, and return to your bakery to make good bread and leave all this fighting to others. Good-bye, all of you."

  Then I stand in front of Laurent and look up into his eyes. "Laurent. I know you will stay with the Army. Maybe this army, maybe another. The quiet pleasures of the farmyard are not for you, I know that. Once a poacher, always a poacher, eh? But I will leave you with this, David, to tell your fellow soldiers when you gather together in a tavern, or around a campfire."

  I stand on my tiptoes and whisper in his ear, "You have heard, perhaps, of La Belle Jeune Fille sans Merci?"

  He looks at me, surprised. "The pirate? But she is dead..."

  "Not yet she isn't, David Laurent," I say, giving him the big, knowing eyes, and an even bigger wink.

  He laughs. "Well, I'll be damned. That will be a story to tell."

  "Farewell, Corporal Laurent. I wish you a life of adventure."

  With that, I turn to Denis Dufour, who has just brought up Mathilde and a fine gelding, the best of the horses we took from the Prussians. I see that my saddle and my gear are on the back of the gelding, as ordered. I take Mathilde's reins and place them in the boy's hands.

  "Mathilde is my own mare, you see, as I bought her in Paris, and she does not belong to the Army. I now give her to you, Dufour, with the hope that you will be kind to her. When you are released from service, take your pay and your horse and go back home. Treat her gently, for she has a gentle nature. Do not use her harshly, do not use her to plow. Instead, get on her and ride around the hills and fields of your countryside, in the springs and summers of your youth, and later, well, maybe a girl will ride behind you, with her arms around your waist. If you and she have children, pile them on Mathilde's back to take them to church on Sunday, and when she grows old and weak, put her out to pasture and let her live out her days in peace. Good-bye, Dufour."

  I go over and lean my head against Mathilde's neck. Good-bye, baby. I know I was hard on you, but things will be better for you now.

  I give her a last pat, and then, choking down a sob, I turn away from them all, and with the gelding's reins in my hand, I return to the side of Bonaparte's carriage.

  "Ah. You are ready, now, yes?" he says. "Good. So are we. Tie your mount to the rear of the coach. You will ride with me till the road divides."

  Nothing surprises me anymore. I do as I am told and then, taking off my shako and putting it under my arm, I climb into the carriage. There is only one open seat and I sit in it. It is, of course, next to Napoléon Bonaparte. A command is given and we rattle off.

  I settle in, suffering the glares from the staff that sit opposite me. I don't care. I am too tired to worry about them.

  The Emperor looks down at me. "So. The one who led the charge that saved the day."

  I shake my head. "No, Excellency. My horse panicked and ran away with me. I led nothing."

  He chuckles. "Well, I am sure Murat will be glad to hear that. I shall tell him. He was a bit miffed that you seized the glory of the day." He picks up my shako and peers at the bullet hole punched in the metal shield just above the head band, then puts it back down. "Well, that surely must have parted your hair."

  "How is Marshal Murat?" I ask, as if I were asking after the health of a favorite uncle of mine. I endure more glares from the others for that.

  "He is well," says Bonaparte.

  "I am glad," I say. "He was kind to me."

  "He is that way," says the Emperor. "Meneval. Give me one of those medals."

  "But, Excellency..."

  Again, the slate eyes lash.

  "Yes, Excellency," answers Meneval. He thrusts his hand into a valise and draws out a glittering medal wrapped in a red, white, and blue ribbon, and hands it to Napoléon, who takes it and unwinds the ribbon.

  "Bow your head, boy," says Napoléon Bonaparte, so I do it and he puts the ribbon around my neck, such that the medal rests on my chest.

  "What is it?" I ask, dumbfounded.

  "It is a new medal I have had struck. I call it the Legion of Honor. You have the first."

  "Thank you, Sir."

  "Ah, it is just a bauble. They are all just baubles, after all, n'est-ce pas? But it is with such baubles that men are led."

  I nod in agreement, my eyelids starting to droop. What is a medal compared to a life? It is nothing ... I think about the girls Bardot will not love, the woman he will not marry, the sons and daughters he will not raise up straight and strong. Non ... Ça ne fait rien. It means nothing ... absolutely nothing.

  ...and then I slump over and slip into sleep.

&nbs
p; "Boy, wake up."

  My eyes open and all I see is white fabric. My mind clears and I realize that I am looking down at Napoléon Bonaparte's trousers and that I have fallen asleep with my head in his lap.

  I sit up and rub my eyes and say, "I'm sorry. I—"

  "Don't worry, Lieutenant. It is the fatigue of war. But now our ways must part, as I turn north to take the Prussians' surrender, and you must go south to bear this letter to the Empress."

  He hands me the letter and I stick it in my jacket.

  "Yes, Excellency."

  "The letter with my seal on it will be your safe passage. Deliver it in person, with my compliments."

  "Yes, Excellency."

  The coach stops and I crawl out. I shove my shako back on my head, tighten its strap, take up the reins of my horse, and climb aboard.

  I salute, and the coach pulls off, followed by the rest of the Imperial Guard escort.

  I sit there for a while, till silence falls on the field and I am alone. My war is over, evening is falling, and I'm very weary.

  Brokenhearted I will wander,

  Brokenhearted I will remain

  For my Bonny Light Horseman,

  In the wars he lies slain.

  Then I put my heels to my mount and head off toward the setting sun and on to Paris.

  * * *

  Epilogue

  I trudge back to my old neighborhood, the rue de Londres, go into Café des Deux Chats, and plunk down my knapsack. The familiar smells envelop me like an embrace from an old friend. Because of my uniform, I am greeted by great cheers, and I'm thinking that I must soon get back into my female garb, else I might get shot as a deserter when the glow of this great victory wears off. But I do have that other Imperial Seal, the one that Murat insisted I keep, so that should hold me in good stead.

  I sit down and order a great bowl of bouillabaisse, and when it comes I tie my napkin around my neck and bury my face in its goodness, spooning up great mouthfuls. I rip chunks off the bread given me and dip it in the stew and shove it in my mouth. Oh, God, it's good! Wine, yes, wine, too, and more of it.