I wonder and worry about where my Clodhoppers are in all this seeming confusion. And Randall ... and Bardot ... and...
...and Jean-Paul de Valdon. Ah, yes, I do manage to see him once more this night. As I am galloping out of Murat's camp with yet another report to the Emperor on his Cavalry's state of readiness, I spy another rider, who is spurring his horse to follow me, and I know that it is he.
He pulls up beside me and says one word, "Jacqui," and I answer with the same brevity—"Jean-Paul," but it is enough. It's a dark, moonless night, so we dare a kiss on horseback, each leaning over into the other on our mounts.
"You be careful now, do you hear me?" I warn, as our lips part. I put the palms of my hands to either side of his face. "No stupid heroics. No seeking of empty glory. Please, Jean-Paul, promise me..."
"Yes, I promise," he says, his breath coming as ragged as mine. "But what about you?"
"Don't worry about me. I know how to keep my head down and my tail covered. I've been doing it all my life. Now, one more kiss and I must fly."
I leave my palms on his smooth cheeks while I bring my mouth once again to his and flick my tongue between his lips and then oh, God! and then I push him away. We can't be doing this.
"Adieu, Jean-Paul," I say, turning my horse's head. "Go with God. My prayers are with you."
"And mine with you, Jacqui. I have never loved anyone as I have loved you. If I go to my grave, I go there happy, having known such as you."
I put my fingers to his lips. Hush, now ... and we part there in the blackness of the night.
When I return to the Emperor, I see that his tent has been set up and he is in it. Well, I guess this long night is at last over. I turn in the horse I have been riding and reclaim Mathilde. I find a patch of grass, tie her reins to my ankle, and lie down on the ground beside her.
I am instantly asleep.
Chapter 41
James Fletcher
On Board the Nancy B. Alsop and
Under Way with All Sails Set
Dear Jacky,
Something is afoot. Higgins returned from a meeting at the Admiralty in a state of, for him, high agitation.
"We must be away," he says. "We are to take station off a certain desolate coast of France. Our American registry and colors will protect us from any interference, America still being neutral in this conflict. More than that, Captain Fletcher, I am not at liberty to say. Except that an arrangement has been made and we just might be getting our girl back, at least for a while."
I, myself, throw the first line off, and the ship's bell is rung and the Nancy B is off.
I can only hope.
Jaimy
Chapter 42
With a groan I turn over and open my eyes. It is dawn and Mathilde is munching the grass next to my cheek, and for a moment I think I am back on Boston Common, dozing in the tall grass as my dear Gretchen grazes nearby. I reach up and stroke her muzzle, and then it comes to me that I am not there in some peaceful meadow but rather here on the edge of what is sure to be a battlefield that will soon be soaked in blood. I sit up and rub my eyes. I figure I've been asleep for maybe an hour, two at most.
Looking about, I see that the Emperor is already awake, standing next to a table his aide-de-camp has set up. His tent has been struck, and Marengo, saddled, stands by. I get to my feet and try to make myself presentable.
Messages are flying in and flying out, but a heavy fog once again covers everything. Napoléon clasps his hands behind him and looks out into the mist.
"It has been a good thing, this fog," I hear him say to the officers who stand by his side. "It has covered our movements. Now, if it'll oblige us and just go away..."
I can't see much of anything beyond fifty feet. But then again, the Prussians can't see me, either, so I figure that's all to the good.
Since nothing is happening, except some far-off thuds of cannon fire—they must be shooting at shadows in this thick mist, for surely they can see nothing—I head off and get something to eat. The sound of the artillery sets my cowardly belly butterflies to fluttering again, and I need to calm them.
A table has been set up with steaming pots of coffee and plates of hot food, and I reflect that it is a good thing to be even a very junior member of the Emperor's staff. Ummm ... what is this? Goose liver pâté spread on a warm slice of bread ... ummm ... The mind worries, and the heart yearns, ah, but the belly rules. The coffee is hot and good and it restores me.
As I am stuffing it all in, I feel a presence beside me. Oh, Lord.
I edge nervously away, trying to make myself invisible, but he notices me and says, "No, lad. Stay and eat." He reaches down and takes something for himself. A servant hands him a cup and he drinks. "Bouvier, is it not?" he says, looking down at me. "Are you not the one who captured the first Prussian flag? Ah, I thought so. I am glad you are still with us. Eat. You will need your strength later." He lifts his cup to me and says, "Soldiers of France, all of us, eh?"
I gulp and nod and raise my own cup, my hand shaking such that some of the coffee sloshes over the rim.
"It is to be devoutly hoped," says Napoléon to the officers that surround him, "that when the mist clears, we will all be in proper position."
Murmurs of assent are heard and then, as if on cue at a Fennel and Bean Production of Macbeth, the curtain is pulled aside, the rising sun burns into the fog, thinning it, while a good breeze sweeps the rest of it suddenly away.
"Now that is much better," I hear Napoléon remark, plainly pleased with what he sees.
I can only gasp as I look on the Plain of Jena. There are ranks upon ranks, divisions upon divisions—battalions stretching out in every direction—shining helmets and breastplates, lances, muskets, cannons. Oh God, it's gonna be murder!
The Emperor reaches out his hand and a long glass is put in it. He raises it to his eye. I reassure myself once again—You are only a messenger ... You will deliver the messages and then you will get out of the way when the real fighting starts. That's what will happen ... calm down, you.
"So. The Prussians have massed themselves there. Very well. We must force them into the open." He turns to his aide-de-camp. "Message to Marshal Lannes: Attack Closewitz now, and take it. Message to Marshal Augereau: Wheel the VII Corps left and make for Cospeda. Message to Marshal Soult: Support Lannes's right flank."
He snaps his long glass shut as the orders are written out, sealed with the Imperial stamp in hot blue wax, and handed to the messengers to be delivered. I have come to know my fellow gallopers during the long night past—there goes Charles, and then Émile, and now Hercule. I am not one of those chosen to deliver these messages, but I get on Mathilde and wait, for I know it will be my turn soon.
The deep boom of artillery begins, and it comes from both sides. Napoléon clasps his hands behind him and says, "We have ninety thousand men. They have a hundred thousand. We shall see."
Oh, my God ... Almost two hundred thousand men ... Yes, and boys, too ... Denis Dufour is out there somewhere with the rest of the Clodhoppers—two hundred thousand standing on this plain, ready to do their best to kill one another!
All seems to be going the way Napoléon wants it to go, and that gives me some comfort, but then, in the midst of all the trumpet calls, the shouted orders in the field, the hammering of the artillery, there comes one single trumpet call and the Emperor's head jerks up at the sound and the long glass is again to his eye. The unmistakable trumpet call was for a frontal assault—a charge.
"Damn! The impetuous fool!" He snaps his glass closed and turns to his staff. "Without orders, Marshal Ney has charged the Prussian lines from the center! It is too soon. The Prussians will close upon him and the VI Corps will be overwhelmed! Damn!" The Emperor of all France bites his knuckle, thinking. Then he straightens and looks directly at me.
"You there! Messenger! You know Murat, and he knows you?"
"Oui, Excellency," I say, nudging Mathilde over to him.
"You know what has just happened?"
"Oui, Excellency."
"Good. No time for long written orders. Take this seal..."His aide-de-camp takes a stamp and presses the Imperial N into a ball of hot blue wax on a piece of paper. I see the wax squishing out to the side of the stamp as Napoléon takes a pen and scrawls his signature and the word Charge. "...and inform Murat of Ney's rash move and tell him that I order him to immediately charge the Prussian lines with his Reserve Cavalry. Lannes and Augereau will move forward on his flanks. Do you have that?"
"Oui, Excellency."
"Good," he says, taking the seal from his man and pressing it into my hand. "Fly, Lieutenant, as fast as you can."
I shove the Imperial Seal in my jacket front, turn Mathilde's head, and pound off.
There is a curious quiet on the field as I gallop across the plateau toward Murat and his cavalry. Yes, there is the far-off thump of artillery, but I see no effect here, and as I ride worrisome thoughts begin to worm into my mind, thoughts I know I should have dealt with long ago but did not.
Just whose side am I on? I was sent here as a spy to benefit my own country, and here I am with a message that could change the outcome of this battle. Napoléon has caused the death of thousands, and he will probably be responsible for the deaths of thousands more. If I do not deliver this message, Murat will not charge and Ney's Corps will be destroyed and that might cause the whole battle to be lost. I have a woman's dress and wig in my knapsack and I could change direction and head for the rear of the Army and change back into a girl and then no one would take me for a deserter. I could easily make it back to Paris ... or maybe somewhere else. I have money—I could head to some northern port and book passage back to London ... back to Jaimy ... Damn! I just don't know!
I go across the front of Lannes's V Corps and see that they are not yet ready to move, and there, on the near edge of the massive formation of twenty-two thousand men, I spy the Clodhoppers. Oh, Lord, there's Dufour with his drum. And Laurent off to the side. And, yes, there, in charge of several companies is Bardot, mounted, with a cigar clamped in his teeth.
What I do know is that if I fail to deliver the message, the Prussians, after they dispose of Ney, will charge over that low ridge, and the poor Clodhoppers will be slaughtered ... my men will be butchered.
No. I cannot let that happen. Call me a traitor, if you must, but I will deliver the message.
I spur on Mathilde to go faster. Come on, girl, give me your best now.
Often Murat and his Reserve Cavalry are referred to as Napoléon's Bloodhounds because of their ferocity in tracking down and harassing the Emperor's enemies, who are generally skirmishing on the edges of the infantry. This time, however, the cavalry must charge straight down the center, and it's gonna be bloody.
Murat had his fourteen thousand men arrayed as a blunt wedge, with himself at the point, with three ranks of heavy cavalry behind and the Light Cavalry on either side. I spot Jean-Paul as I ride up, and I know he sees me, for he lightly fingers my scarf, which he wears about his neck. Murat, the brave idiot, will lead the charge himself with his staff beside him. And there, of course, as a member of that staff, is Randall Trevelyne.