My Bonny Light Horseman (31 page)

"All right, musketeers! Have you got it? Half Cock, Prime, Close, Pour, Spit, Ram, Full Cock, Present Arms. You have it? Good, let's do it. On my order. Load and Present!"

I have them arranged in the Line for this, not wanting any of them to shoot any of their comrades in the back of the head, as might happen if they are formed in the Square.

It is a disaster.
Non! Michaud, do not look down the barrel! Dubois, you've spilled your powder! Damn! Gobin, take out the ramrod, take out the ramrod! Sweet Jesus! You are to shoot the Huns, not spear them!

Eventually, they get it all done. They stand there, their muskets pointed at the tree.

"Very well," I say, glaring at them. "Aim ... and ... Fire!"

There is a blast of musketry and a piece of bark flies off the tree. At least one of them hit it.

"Good. Reload. Same drill—Half Cock, Prime, Close, Pour, Spit, Ram, Full Cock, and Present. Fire on my order." They fuss with their muskets again. "A real soldier can load and fire three times inside of a minute. Before we march out of this camp, you must be able to do it at least two times a minute, or else you will be back to digging latrines. Ready? Present ... Aim ... Fire!"

This time much more bark is ripped off the luckless tree, and a cheer goes up from the men.

"Good. Give yourselves a real cheer, and let's do it again."

Laurent lifts his fist and shouts, "Bravo, Clodhoppers!" And the rest of them follow suit. "Clodhoppers! Clodhoppers! Clodhoppers!"

Well, good. Now let's get back at it.

We do it over and over again, and when we are finished, we begin our march back to the camp for supper. I look with some worry at the clouds, as my men still do not have tents. I had been able to scrounge up a few large tarpaulins, generally used to cover cannon, and they will have to crowd under those should it rain. Before we leave the far fields, I spot a small, cozy inn tucked down in a little village below.
Hmmm...

My little drummer has been tapping out the time for our marching feet, and I have a thought. I am English, posing as American, and have no notion of French marching songs, so I say, "Drummer boy. Have you a song for us to march to?"

He, being a child, begins to sing a child's song.

Na-po-léon avait cinq cent sol-dats!
Na-po-léon avait cinq cent sol-dats!
Na-po-léon avait cinq cent sol-dats!
Mar-chant du même pas!

The men, with the exception of their older Sergeant Boule, of course, all know the song from their schoolyard days, and it turns out to be just the thing to march to—
Napoléon had five hundred soldiers, marching all in time,
it roughly translates. Here, Napoléon has but fourteen, marching sort of in time. Fifteen, counting me.

When we get back, I see the men settled as best I can. Laurent, whom I am finding to be one of my cleverest men, has managed to stretch the tarps over some nearby cannons for the men to sleep under. He has also scrounged up some wood to make a campfire so they can gather about it and take some comfort in each other's company. They go to get their dinners, then return to the fire to eat. I hear a song raised as I head for the Officers' Mess.

Lieutenant Depardieu waves me over and I take a chair next to him. A glass of wine is put in front of me and then food is brought—good food—and I tuck in. There are several others about whom I had met before, and we have a fine dinner. They, too, wish to be regaled with stories about America, and I give 'em what they want.

As the tables are cleared and the wine mellows the company, they turn to singing songs, and demand one of me.

"Alas, Messieurs, I have no voice..."

"I think the reason is, the
man's
voice is changing," says one of the wags to some laughter, but I choose not to take offense.

"...but, if you will excuse me for a moment, I might be able to provide you with some music." I rise, bow, and stride through the tent. I notice, on my way out, that a card game has been set up, and Major Levesque sits at the head of it. I do not meet his eyes.

In a moment I am back at the Officers' Mess, with my fiddle under my arm ... and one of my decks of cards in my pocket. My men
will
have proper tents.

"Messieurs! Some American tunes for your pleasure!" I put the bow to the fiddle and tear into a medley of fiddle tunes starting with "Cumberland Gap" and ending with "Hop High Ladies," which I top off with a bit of a dance. When I finish, I lift bow and fiddle and give a deep nod to an excellent round of applause.

"Bravo, encore!" shouts one of them, but just then bugles blow outside for Lights Out, and my fiddle must fall silent.

Officers, of course, do not have to turn in at this time and the place stays brightly lit.

I walk from table to table, sharing wine and conversation with some of my new acquaintances. Eventually, as if by chance, I end up close to Levesque's table.

He looks up at me. "You again."

"I trust that things are now well between us, Sir?"

"That depends. Do you have any money, boy?" There is a big stack of coins and bills in front of him. One of the officers, plainly cleaned out, gets up and leaves.

"Very little, Sir. But I do have some."

"Good. Sit down."

I sit down. "But I do not know how to play at cards, Sir."

He chuckles and looks knowingly at his friends. "We will teach you, young Sir."

I pull my few remaining coins out and put them on the table in front of me.

Levesque deals out the cards, two to each of us—one down, one up. "The game is called
vingt-et-un.
Place your bets, gentlemen."

The game, Major Levesque, as taught to me by Mr. Yancy Beauregard Cantrell on the Mississippi River, is also known as blackjack or twenty-one, and Mr. Cantrell taught me very, very well.

In the game of blackjack, at least as it is played here, the odds are in favor of the dealer, as he is the house against which everyone else bets. Yes, he does have to cover all bets
but
he wins all ties, and therein lies the advantage. The object is for each player, by asking for additional cards, or hits, in New Orleans parlance, to get as close to twenty-one without going over. Aces count either one or eleven, depending on the rest of your hand; all face cards count ten. If you go over, whether dealer or player, you lose. If you stop at, say, nineteen—a four, a six, and a nine—while the dealer shows two tens, alas, you lose again. It is very good to be the dealer, but ... and here is the good thing ... the deal passes to the next player to get blackjack—an ace with any face card on the first two cards dealt to you.

Having not much money, I bet very cautiously, waiting for my chance to deal. Levesque deals several rounds and rakes in even more money. He deals again and one of the lieutenants at the table scores blackjack, and, though irritated, Levesque passes the deal to him. I notice that he, too, bets carefully when the deal is not his, waiting for it to get back to him.
Hélas, M'sieur,
I think it will never come to you again, not this night.

The young officer deals for a while—I lose a bit, then win some back, aboveboard and all, and then I see my chance. I am dealt a four down, and a queen up. The other two players go bust and I see the cards they flip over. I palm the four and, under the table, pull out an ace of spades from my sleeve and replace the four with the ace, hoping desperately that Levesque does not have the legitimate ace as his hole card.

"
Vingt-et-un,
" I say, flipping over my ace. The others throw their cards in, and I am not discovered. The deal is mine.

As if on cue, Captain Bardot saunters over to check on my fortunes. He carries a glass of cognac and places it before me.

"Here, Bouvier, this will fortify you in the face of these formidable adversaries."

He puts his hand on my shoulder and grins impudently at Levesque, who growls back at him, "So, Bardot, have you adopted this puppy? It seems you could occupy yourself with grander things than with ... underage messenger boys."

Bardot's smile disappears from his face. I know the implied insinuation will not go unanswered if I don't do something.
Damn!

I quickly take the glass of cognac and toss some of it back in my mouth and then make a great show of gasping and coughing, as if it were the first spirits I had ever tasted.

"
Mon Dieu,
how that burns! Oh, how can you stand to drink that stuff? Oh, God, that's ghastly!"

There is laughter all around the table at my boyish inexperience, but, thankfully, it defuses the potentially explosive situation and Bardot walks off.

It also gave me a chance to switch the decks of cards beneath the table.

I return the ace of spades back to my own deck and commence to deal, and I do not give up the deal for the rest of the night, to Levesque's absolute frustration and disgust. I intentionally lose some, but I win most and steadily thin down the pile of money that used to rest before him. The other players are soon wiped out and it comes down to Levesque and me. I especially delight in giving him close hands—totals of nineteen when I come up with twenty, or tantalizing him by dealing him a king and a deuce, and when he asks for a hit, busting him with a queen.
Spank me, will you?

Others are now grouped around the table, watching the cardplay. As the night is winding down, I deal him his two cards, and me mine. He shows an ace of clubs up, and I show a six of diamonds. He looks at his hole card and exults, "Ha! Double down on aces!" and he flips over his other card. It is, indeed, the ace of spades.

In double down, when a player is dealt a pair in his first two cards, he may play each card separately and he may increase his bet to whatever he wishes. Double down in aces is a very good thing, for all you have to do is draw a face card on each and you have a double
vingt-et-un.

Formidable...

Levesque divides his remaining money, which is still considerable, and puts a stack next to each of his aces. Then he smiles and says, "Deal, boy."

I place a nine of clubs on his first ace, making that add up to twenty, and he looks at my six of diamonds and nods. "I'll stay with that. Hit me on the other one."

On his other ace I deal out a three of hearts. That gives him fourteen and he does not smile on that one. "Another," he says.

I turn the next card and it is the deuce of clubs. He now has a total of sixteen.

I see him looking at my six of diamonds showing. I know he is thinking I probably have a face card down, and, if I did, he would lose on that half of the double down. He must take another card. "Hit me," he says.

I deal him another card and it is the five of hearts.
He has twenty-one.

He leans back, smiling, and lights up another cigar. His friends gather about and clap him on the back. Bardot again comes up to stand behind me.

"So what have you got, boy?" asks Levesque, grinning through the smoke.

I flip over my hole card. It is a five of spades, giving me a total of eleven. A hush falls over the watching crowd. Levesque has lost his smile.

"I will take a hit, M'sieur," says I, turning over the next card in the deck and dealing myself, as I knew I would, the lovely queen of hearts.

"
Vingt-et-un,
Monsieur, I believe I win," I say, rising. "Pardon me, but I must go now and see to my men. Thank you for your kind instruction.
Bonsoir.
"

I hear a low chuckle from Bardot behind me. "Messenger boy, indeed, eh, Major?"

Major Levesque stands in a cloud of cigar smoke and fixes me with a glare of the purest dislike. He turns and leaves the table, giving me ample time to, unobserved, switch back the decks of cards. I scoop up the money and leave.

Thank you, Yancy, once again.

Chapter 31

James Fletcher
Brattle Lane
London

Dear Jacky,

I came out of my dream yesterday, for good and ever, I hope. It was as if a breeze had come up and blown the clouds out of my mind, leaving it free and clear.

The next day I was able to dress and to stand up with little dizziness and was both shocked and amazed to see your Mr. Higgins come to call upon me. After graciously inquiring after my health, he told me of how he and the loyal crew on your schooner followed you across the ocean, till the
Dauntless
was taken. Seeing there was nothing more to be done, he directed the
Nancy B
to London, to see what might be done there.

Upon his arrival he made discreet inquiries into your whereabouts and was greatly alarmed to hear rumors of your grisly death, and then was just as greatly relieved to learn that those reports were not true. This he learned when he visited your orphanage and found out from the Reverend Alsop that, while your location is unknown, you are still among the living.

Higgins renewed his efforts on your behalf, and that is a great comfort to me, for I do not know of a more competent man.

Later on that same day, I received yet another visitor.

"Joseph!" I exclaim upon seeing a very grim Mr. Jared enter the drawing room where I sat writing this very letter. "How very good to see you! Come, have a glass of wine and something to eat."

"Got anything stronger, Mr. Fletcher?" he growls, looking over at the crystal decanters resting on the sideboard.

"Certainly," I say and pour out two generous libations of some rather nice Scotch whisky. I hand one to him and lift my own glass. "To the poor old
Wolverine
! We've both seen a lot of water under our various keels since then, eh?"

He gives me an appraising look, clinks his glass to mine, and then tosses back his whisky, neat.

"You seem pretty cheerful, Mr. Fletcher, considering..."

Considering what?...and then it comes to me ... Oh, my God, he does not know! What the poor man must have been going through...