“Enmity, indeed,” grumbles the General. He stands. “Let us go to the map.”
I rise, knock off the rest of my glass, and follow him to the table and gaze down at the display laid thereon. It is a map of the environs around the town of Vimeiro.
Wellesley points to an area east of a river. “General Junot has massed his troops there. Thirteen thousand men under Generals Delaborde, Loison, Montmorand, Thomieres, and Margaron. What is your opinion on how they will attack, for surely they will, the day after tomorrow, by our best estimate?”
I consider, thinking back to the instructions in the art of war given to me by my great and good friend Captain Pierre Bardot . . .
You see, Bouvier, this formation, being essentially a square, gives l’Empereur the ability to attack in any direction, merely by ordering simple flanking maneuvers. And, since the length and the depth of the army is only a two-day march, l’Empereur will be able to bring down the full force of his attack on any point in only forty-eight hours. Brilliant, n’est-ce pas? It is not for nothing that he has been called the God of War.
“I know, General, that l’Empereur prefers to fight in columns of men, rather than lines. His generals mostly follow his example. So, Junot will bring his main force through here.” I point my finger at a space between two low ridges.
“I agree with your assessment,” says the General. “They will attack in columns, and we will fight in lines, and we will win the day.”
“And, eventually, the war, Sir?” I ask with a bit of mockery in my tone. Perhaps that dollop of wine that is warming my belly has given me a bit of Dutch courage.
“Eventually.”
“You feel you are the one to bring down Napoleon Bonaparte?”
“I do.”
“Good luck with that, Sir.”
He looks at me and says, “You know, Miss, there are several things about you that really irritate me—”
“I am sorry, Sir, if I give offense.”
“—the chief of which is the reverence in your voice when you say ‘l’Empereur.’”
I puff up a bit and say, “He was kind to me.”
He considers this for a moment and then says, “Oh, he was? Then how kind do you find this? He has ordered his generals in Portugal and Spain to be utterly ruthless in putting down the popular uprisings that are springing up all over the peninsula.”
“So? War is hell. We both know that.”
“Yes. But do you know that his General Louis-Henri Loison, when laying siege to the town of Evora last month, demanded surrender of the city, and when the inhabitants refused, he ordered a charge, overwhelmed the defenders, and then had every surviving man, woman, and child killed?”
“I cannot believe that,” I gasp. “Children, too?”
“Yes. A baby skewered on a steel bayonet and held high is apparently the new Napoleonic standard.”
I am staggered—sickened—and my face must show it, for Wellesley smiles a grim smile and says, “I believe I have cracked your reserve, Miss Faber.”
“In-indeed you have, Sir. May I be excused? I do not feel well.”
“Yes? Well, get out.”
I turn and plunge out the door.
I need some air . . .
Gasping, I run to the stables and order up my horse. As soon as she is saddled—and no, I don’t want a goddamn side- saddle!—I am up on her back and away I ride.
I want to keep riding west till I leave this poor country, with all its grief and horror and misery, to what’s sure to be its unhappy future. I want to get to the coast and book passage back to Boston and pick up the Nancy B. and sail off to Rangoon to be with Jaimy in his hour of need. I want . . . I want . . .
It doesn’t matter what you want, girl . . .
I see a troop of light cavalry up ahead and rein in next to them.
“Lieutenant!” I call out to the officer in charge. “Can you tell me where the Seventh Brigade, Twentieth Light Dragoons is quartered?”
The young man looks me over, salutes, and says, “About three miles up ahead, on the right, by a low ridge.”
“Thank you, Suh!” I shout, returning his salute. Then, digging my heels into the mare’s flanks, I fly off down the road to seek solace in the sweet company of Captain Lord Richard Allen.
Chapter 4
James Emerson Fletcher
Seeker of Wisdom and Enlightenment
The House of Chen
Rangoon
Jacky Faber
Location unknown, at least to me
My dearest Jacky,
I am, at this moment, kneeling in a Buddhist temple, clad in a saffron robe, with my head bowed. The Lady Sidrah kneels by my side.
I am trying to bring my mind to some sort of eventual understanding and acceptance of your death and resurrection, and the actual death of sweet Bess, she who stood by my side in my hours of madness, she who paid the ultimate price of friendship to me and died in her own heart’s blood back there in the dark on Blackheath Moor.
Yes, Jacky, memories of that trying time are slowly coming back to me—how in my despair at your loss, I turned in a maddened state to robbing the broad highway, with revenge uppermost in my shattered mind, revenge against those who had condemned you and caused, I had thought, your ultimate destruction: Bliffil, whom I now remember that I killed in cold blood there in the moonlight on that dark road, and the detestable Flashby, whom I fear still lives and, and . . .
Sidrah’s hand is placed on my shaking arm. Even in this quiet sanctuary, even with all the Oriental medicines that have been doled out to me, even with my brother monks’ gentle instruction in the Way of the Buddha, even with all that, still, sometimes, I begin to shake, uncontrollably, with rage.
Yes, Sir Harry Flashby, that unspeakable bastard, continues to draw breath and, I suspect, free air at that. My kind host, Lee Chen, head of the House of Chen, whom you know as Chopstick Charlie, chortled as he recounted your rather elaborate plan to substitute Flashby for me in the ultimate capture of the Black Highwayman: Confucius be praised, you should have seen his face, Mr. Fletcher, eyes bugging out like a squeezed toad as he was hauled off to prison! Ha! But we both know, Jacky, that the slippery snake will manage to wriggle out of Newgate and will soon be back in a position to do damage. And, I am sure, he has his nemesis, Jacky Faber, full in his sights.
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.