My Bonny Light Horseman (28 page)

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.

"I am sorry, Sir, but—"

"Do not be sorry, Cadet," he says. "After all, it is war. We must all get dirty." He puts his hands behind him and walks around me. "So. We have been blessed with an American Cadet, then? We do not even have such a rank in the
Grande Armée de la République.
What shall you be, then? A private? A corporal? Surely not a sergeant, for your cheeks are too downy, like the soft belly of a goose."

I feel my cheeks flaming. "I will be whatever you want me to be, General Charpentier."

He considers me and then glances off to his right and says, "We shall see what you shall be. A messenger, for sure, but right this moment we have not the need for such. Look over there. Do you see that?"

I look over and see what seems to be a confused bunch of men and young boys. It is a squad of sorts, about a dozen men, and it looks like they have just been issued their uniforms, as they are ill fitted and look a mess.

"Yes, Sir, I see," I say.

"Do you know how to drill, Cadet Bouvier of the United States Militia?" asks the General. He flicks the ash off the end of his cigar such that it lands on my boot. "Do you know your right flank from your left? Forward March from Advance Columns to the Right? Do you know how to load and fire a musket? Do you?"

Again I answer, "I did not come here to be insulted, Sir!"

"Very well," replies General Charpentier. He points the wet and well-chewed end of his cigar at the group of men. "They are a gaggle of farm boys and shopkeepers newly arrived to fight for the glory of France. They are nothing but cannon fodder, and they are yours, Cadet Jacques Bouvier. Do what you can with them, and then we will see what you will be in this Army."