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 c*ck 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 commanders, 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.