My Bonny Light Horseman (35 page)

A quick check shows no one in the room—I suspect the family that lives in this place is cowering upstairs—and I go over to pick up my dispatches and thrust them back in my pouch. "Michaud. Take that flag." I scoop up the maps and other papers from Papen's desk and shove them in there as well. They might prove of interest to the Emperor's staff.

Michaud grabs the flag by its pole, and we go back outside, where I'm glad to see Denis standing there holding Mathilde's reins. "M'sieur! There are other horses in back! Most of them saddled!"

Must have been the mounts of the party that ambushed us. "Good. Each of you men go back and get one," I say, as I take the reins and mount up. This is
very
good, I'm thinking, as I know my men must be exhausted.

Vedel hands me up several purses of coins and some papers, and I stuff all in my pouch and tie it shut.

Within a minute we all ride out of the farmyard and thunder down the road.

We ride the horses hard and encounter Prince Murat's outriders within two hours. We are challenged so I give the password, and we are quickly escorted to Murat's headquarters. The Grand Army has been ordered to stop its advance and is making camp, though nightfall is still a few hours off. I suspect that Napoléon doesn't want his army sitting exposed on the banks of the Saale, waiting for the bridge to be finished. I also surmise that he will be very glad to receive my dispatch from Colonel Maurais. We shall see.

"The seal on this has been broken, Lieutenant!" says Murat's aide-de-camp severely. "I trust you have an explanation?"

"Yes, Sir," I answer, standing stiffly at Attention under his angry gaze. "We were ambushed by a Prussian Cavalry patrol on our way here. I was taken prisoner. The dispatches from Colonel Maurais were discovered in my pouch and read by their officer, a Major Papen."

"That is
not
a good thing, messenger," he growls, reading the letter. "Now the enemy knows where and when we will cross the Saale."

As I am being dressed down, I notice out of the corner of my eye that my poachers, who are standing next to their puffing horses, are excitedly telling the tale of the day's events to others of their rank. They often point at me in the reporting of it.

"Major Papen lies dead, Sir. My men rescued me and I retrieved our papers. I am positive that no one else has read them, and ... if I may, M'sieur..." I reach back for my pouch, then pull it open to show the charts and such that Major Papen had both on his person and lying about his desk. "I got his papers as well."

"Hmmm," he says, considering this. Then he points to the entrance of the biggest tent. "All right. Inside, boy."

I take off my shako and walk into the tent, followed by the aide-de-camp. There are several men standing around a table, staring down at a map. The man in the middle looks up and asks, "What is this then, Paradis?"

"This messenger has a dispatch from Colonel Maurais of the Engineer Corps. The bridge will be ready tomorrow..."

"That is welcome news, indeed," replies the man, smiling broadly. He turns to the others. "We will cross tomorrow!"

"...and he has other things as well. He will explain, Marshal Murat."

I suck in my breath. So it is the man himself—Marshal Joachim Murat—Napoléon's trusted brother-in-law and comrade-in-arms since Bonaparte first grabbed power back in the last century. Marshal Murat, famous throughout Europe for his bravery, dash, and military skill. I bow and tell it. Then I spread Papen's papers out on the table, and they pounce on them. There are gasps of astonishment.

Look! Prince Ludwig has concentrated his forces at Schleiz!

And Brunswick has withdrawn to the west! He means to outflank us!

As they go over the maps, I gaze at Murat. He is a very good-looking man—slim, with curly hair falling to his shoulders, good straight nose, strong chin, gold braid all over his uniform. And, as his subordinates continue to exclaim over my find, he comes up to me and says, "You have a strange accent, messenger."

"I am an American volunteer, Your Excellency," I manage to stammer out.

"Hmmm," he says. "Interesting. I, too, have an American on my staff. He has proved very valuable."

"We Americans owe a great debt to France, Sir. Some of us mean to repay that debt."

"Well said," replies Marshal Murat, turning back again to his staff. "Gentlemen! We are but simple cavalry. These papers must go to the Emperor for his study."

"I do have a letter that I must deliver to him," I say, holding up the letter with the broken blue seal on it.

Murat laughs. "Put the maps back in his pouch and let him be on his way, and let us prepare to cross the Saale tomorrow."

My leather shoulder bag is handed back to me and I take it, bow, and go to leave.

"We will, of course, provide you with an escort, to ensure your safe passage. The Emperor has brought up his Old Guard and is encamped immediately behind Bernadotte's I Corps. It will not take you long to get there."

"I thank you, Sir. I'll be off now."

"Mount up, boys," I say to my fine poachers, and they climb on their horses. I get on the long-suffering Mathilde and pat her neck—
be patient, baby, soon you shall have fresh oats and sweet rest
—and to Michaud I say, "Give the Prussian flag to Dufour. Let our brave drummer boy carry it." Michaud has been carrying it wrapped up under his arm.

Denis takes the flag, unfurls it, then proudly plants the base of the pole on the pommel of his saddle.

"Let's go."

And so, with the captured double-eagle flapping above us, the Clodhoppers gallop through the ranks of wondering soldiers, bound for the headquarters of Napoléon Bonaparte, Emperor of France.

Chapter 35

We pull up at the edge of the Emperor's heavily guarded encampment.

All along our gallop from Murat's headquarters to here, there have been looks of astonishment at the sight of four common musketeers mounted on heavy horses, one rather small officer clad in a Hussar's uniform, all led by a drummer boy carrying a Prussian battle flag.

It does not speak well for me, but I do like a good show, especially when I am in the center of it.

An Imperial Guard officer, a lieutenant, flanked by several flinty-eyed members of the same elite corps, comes out to confront us.

"Who are you and what do you want,
garçon?
" he asks, with great contempt in his voice.

I decide to ignore the insult, for the moment at least. I put on the Look and reply, "I am
Sous-Lieutenant
Bouvier, Messenger of the Sixteenth Fusiliers, and I bear a dispatch from Colonel Maurais, Chief Engineer of the
Pontonniers
... concerning the progress of the bridge across the Saale."

The officer thrusts out his hand to grab the letter. I decide to meet insult with insult.

"The message is for
l'Empereur,
M'sieur, not for one such as you."

"What! You insolent puppy!" snarls the officer, astounded. He and the other Guardsmen reach for their swords, but then again, my poachers reach for theirs, too.
Good boys.

This rattle of sabers is noted by an officer of a much higher rank who has just stepped out of the big tent. "
Qu'est-ce que c'est?
" he asks, striding up before me.

He seems to be a colonel, and I figure this is as far up the chain of command as I am going to get. It turns out that I am wrong in that assumption.

Again I say that I have a message for
l'Empereur
and I dismount, salute, say the password, and hand the dispatch to him.

He takes it but does not open it. Instead he looks up at Dufour, sitting there dazzled by the realization of exactly where he is. "That is a Hapsburg flag, boy. Where did you get it?" demands the Colonel.

Denis is unable to speak. I clear my throat and give a quick account of the day's events and hand him my leather pouch.

"Here are the papers we took from the Prussians. Marshal Murat is of the opinion that
l'Empereur
would like to see them."

He takes the bag, nods, and says, "Wait here." He turns and goes back to the tent.

"Dismount, boys," I say to my men, and they slip off their horses. "Stand easy."

As I wait for what I think will be yet another message to deliver, I gaze about me. The Army stretches to the horizon in all directions—thousands of just-pitched tents in neat rows, the smoke of hundreds of cooking fires rising into the sky, rank upon rank of cannons. The camp followers, too, have worked their way into the center of the Army, and I hear the lilt of female laughter as well. No, an army does not travel only on its stomach.

The tent that the general had entered has two guards standing at attention on either side of the entrance, and each holds a staff on which is mounted a shining brass eagle—Napoléon's battle standard—the Imperial Eagle.

Hmmm.
The Emperor of France is in that tent, I figure. As I'm getting used to that idea, thinking on that old saying that "a cat may look at a king," a man in a blue coat with a golden sash across his chest comes out, followed by two other men.
Oh, my God, it is him.
He looks at the flag and walks slowly toward us, his hands clasped behind his back. My knees commence to shake, and beside me I hear Du-four gasp.

"Dufour! Down on one knee! You will present the flag to the Emperor!" I whisper. I whip off my shako and put my own knee to the ground, bowing my head. In a moment I'm starin' at Napoléon Bonaparte's gleaming black boots, twelve inches from my nose.

Napoléon stands before us and says, "Get up, both of you. There is no need for that sort of thing on the battlefield. After all, we are all fellow soldiers,
non
?"

I struggle to my feet, unable to reply.

"So you have captured a Hapsburg battle flag?" he asks. "You have the honor of having taken the first prize in this campaign," he goes on. "You have done well, Lieutenant."

"
N-N-Non,
Your Excellency, I have not," I stammer. "My men took the flag, not me. I was but a helpless captive at the time."

He looks at me, and I uncase my eyes and sneak a look at him. He is not the small man the British press would have us believe, no, he is of medium height, and a good head taller than me. His dark hair is cut short and an errant curl falls over his forehead. For the ruler of much of Europe, he is very young-looking. Many thoughts are rushing through my head, but the chief one is
Here is Little Mary, member of the Rooster Charlie Gang of Street Urchins, and just what the hell is she doing here?

He nods and says, "Well and modestly spoken, Messenger Bouvier. However, I have found the papers you captured most interesting, and I suspect that
you
were the one who realized their value. You are to be commended."

Well, I can't argue with
that.

"Thank you, Excellency," I manage to say. "Our drummer Dufour here would like to present you with the flag, if you will accept it."

Napoléon nods and turns to the boy. Denis, his eyes wide, hands the flagstaff to his leader, who takes it and hands it back to one of the men behind him.

"Thank you, Dufour. That flag shall stand in the center of all the battle flags we shall take in the coming days when we march victorious back into Paris."

Denis Dufour weaves on his feet, his eyes go back in his head, and then he topples over in a dead faint.

The Emperor chuckles, looking down at the boy. "See to your drummer, Lieutenant. It seems the events of the day have overwhelmed him. Then wait here. I will have a message for Marshal Murat for you to deliver.
Bonsoir.
"

With that, Napoléon Bonaparte turns, clasps his hands behind him again, and returns to his command tent.

"Guerrette, Michaud," I say, turning to my men, who stand dumbfounded behind me. "Pick him up and see if you can revive him. Does anyone have any water?"

It turns out that they have. There were canteens attached to the Prussian saddles, and after they carry Dufour off a little distance, they apply a flask to his lips.

He awakes sputtering, looks about, and then starts crying. "I disgraced myself!" he wails. "In front of the Emperor! I shall die of shame! Oh, God!"

"No, you did not, Denis Dufour. You distinguished yourself today, and the Emperor knows it," I say, looking deep into his teary eyes. "You were exhausted. After all, you had run on your own feet for fifteen miles then rode back the same distance in the same day. Who would not keel over after that?" I take him by his thin shoulders and give him a gentle shake. "You delivered an Austrian battle flag into Napoléon Bonaparte's very hand today. Count on it, you will tell that story to your children, and their children will tell it to theirs down through the ages, generation after generation. Now hush. There is work to do. Laurent, take the men back to the Sixteenth Fusiliers and pitch your tents. Get something to eat. Dufour, set up our tent and make sure there is a bucket of clean water for me when I get back ... no,
two
buckets of water. Do you have that? Good. I will be back later, after I deliver the message to Murat. Do not worry, I am in no danger here in the middle of the Army."

They get back on their horses.

"And, men," I go on, looking up at Laurent and trying not to choke up, "I cannot thank you enough. You saved my very life today and I shall never forget it. Know that. Now go."

And they are off.

I wait by Mathilde, stroking her neck, and reflect that I really could use a bath.
And yes, baby, I know you could use some good oats and a bit of rest, too, but just wait and we shall both get what we need.

Presently an officer comes out of the command tent and hands me a sealed message. "For Marshal Murat."

I take it, salute, and I am off.

We pound into Murat's encampment and I leap off Mathilde and stride to the front of the tent. I salute the guard, say the password, and am admitted to the headquarters of the Reserve Cavalry.

"Ah," acknowledges Marshal Murat, looking up from his charts. "It is our bold messenger back from
l'Empereur.
"