My Bonny Light Horseman (43 page)

"Michaud, Simon, thank you both. Lambert ... Guerrette ... Gobin ... be sure to tell the people of your village of the bravery of Vedel and Dubois ... break the news to their families as gently as you can. Chaisson, you are able to stand, and it gives me joy to see that ... Bouchard ... Pannetier ... Bertrand ... go back ... go back and be the good plowboys you are. Papa Boule, return your lads to the village, and return to your bakery to make good bread and leave all this fighting to others. Good-bye, all of you."

Then I stand in front of Laurent and look up into his eyes. "Laurent. I know you will stay with the Army. Maybe this army, maybe another. The quiet pleasures of the farmyard are not for you, I know that. Once a poacher, always a poacher, eh? But I will leave you with this, David, to tell your fellow soldiers when you gather together in a tavern, or around a campfire."

I stand on my tiptoes and whisper in his ear, "You have heard, perhaps, of
La Belle Jeune Fille sans Merci?
"

He looks at me, surprised. "The pirate? But she is dead..."

"Not yet she isn't, David Laurent," I say, giving him the big, knowing eyes, and an even bigger wink.

He laughs. "Well, I'll be damned. That will be a story to tell."

"Farewell, Corporal Laurent. I wish you a life of adventure."

With that, I turn to Denis Dufour, who has just brought up Mathilde and a fine gelding, the best of the horses we took from the Prussians. I see that my saddle and my gear are on the back of the gelding, as ordered. I take Mathilde's reins and place them in the boy's hands.

"Mathilde is my own mare, you see, as I bought her in Paris, and she does not belong to the Army. I now give her to you, Dufour, with the hope that you will be kind to her. When you are released from service, take your pay and your horse and go back home. Treat her gently, for she has a gentle nature. Do not use her harshly, do not use her to plow. Instead, get on her and ride around the hills and fields of your countryside, in the springs and summers of your youth, and later, well, maybe a girl will ride behind you, with her arms around your waist. If you and she have children, pile them on Mathilde's back to take them to church on Sunday, and when she grows old and weak, put her out to pasture and let her live out her days in peace. Good-bye, Dufour."

I go over and lean my head against Mathilde's neck.
Good-bye, baby. I know I was hard on you, but things will be better for you now.

I give her a last pat, and then, choking down a sob, I turn away from them all, and with the gelding's reins in my hand, I return to the side of Bonaparte's carriage.

"Ah. You are ready, now, yes?" he says. "Good. So are we. Tie your mount to the rear of the coach. You will ride with me till the road divides."

Nothing surprises me anymore. I do as I am told and then, taking off my shako and putting it under my arm, I climb into the carriage. There is only one open seat and I sit in it. It is, of course, next to Napoléon Bonaparte. A command is given and we rattle off.

I settle in, suffering the glares from the staff that sit opposite me. I don't care. I am too tired to worry about them.

The Emperor looks down at me. "So. The one who led the charge that saved the day."

I shake my head. "No, Excellency. My horse panicked and ran away with me. I led nothing."

He chuckles. "Well, I am sure Murat will be glad to hear that. I shall tell him. He was a bit miffed that you seized the glory of the day." He picks up my shako and peers at the bullet hole punched in the metal shield just above the head band, then puts it back down. "Well, that surely must have parted your hair."

"How is Marshal Murat?" I ask, as if I were asking after the health of a favorite uncle of mine. I endure more glares from the others for that.

"He is well," says Bonaparte.

"I am glad," I say. "He was kind to me."

"He is that way," says the Emperor. "Meneval. Give me one of those medals."

"But, Excellency..."

Again, the slate eyes lash.

"Yes, Excellency," answers Meneval. He thrusts his hand into a valise and draws out a glittering medal wrapped in a red, white, and blue ribbon, and hands it to Napoléon, who takes it and unwinds the ribbon.

"Bow your head, boy," says Napoléon Bonaparte, so I do it and he puts the ribbon around my neck, such that the medal rests on my chest.

"What is it?" I ask, dumbfounded.

"It is a new medal I have had struck. I call it the Legion of Honor. You have the first."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Ah, it is just a bauble. They are all just baubles, after all,
n'est-ce pas?
But it is with such baubles that men are led."

I nod in agreement, my eyelids starting to droop. What is a medal compared to a life? It is nothing ... I think about the girls Bardot will not love, the woman he will not marry, the sons and daughters he will not raise up straight and strong.
Non ... Ça ne fait rien.
It means nothing ... absolutely nothing.

...and then I slump over and slip into sleep.

"Boy, wake up."

My eyes open and all I see is white fabric. My mind clears and I realize that I am looking down at Napoléon Bonaparte's trousers and that I have fallen asleep with my head in his lap.

I sit up and rub my eyes and say, "I'm sorry. I—"

"Don't worry, Lieutenant. It is the fatigue of war. But now our ways must part, as I turn north to take the Prussians' surrender, and you must go south to bear this letter to the Empress."

He hands me the letter and I stick it in my jacket.

"Yes, Excellency."

"The letter with my seal on it will be your safe passage. Deliver it in person, with my compliments."

"Yes, Excellency."

The coach stops and I crawl out. I shove my shako back on my head, tighten its strap, take up the reins of my horse, and climb aboard.

I salute, and the coach pulls off, followed by the rest of the Imperial Guard escort.

I sit there for a while, till silence falls on the field and I am alone. My war is over, evening is falling, and I'm very weary.

Brokenhearted I will wander,
Brokenhearted I will remain
For my Bonny Light Horseman,
In the wars he lies slain.

Then I put my heels to my mount and head off toward the setting sun and on to Paris.

Epilogue

I trudge back to my old neighborhood, the rue de Londres, go into
Café des Deux Chats
, and plunk down my knapsack. The familiar smells envelop me like an embrace from an old friend. Because of my uniform, I am greeted by great cheers, and I'm thinking that I must soon get back into my female garb, else I might get shot as a deserter when the glow of this great victory wears off. But I do have that other Imperial Seal, the one that Murat insisted I keep, so that should hold me in good stead.

I sit down and order a great bowl of bouillabaisse, and when it comes I tie my napkin around my neck and bury my face in its goodness, spooning up great mouthfuls. I rip chunks off the bread given me and dip it in the stew and shove it in my mouth.
Oh, God, it's good!
Wine, yes, wine, too, and more of it.

No matter what happens to Jacky Faber, her belly still rules.

On my way here I took a detour to a small town, Château Thierry, figuring the Empress could wait a bit for her good news, and delivered news of another sort to a family who lived there. It was a nice house by a river and I pulled up and dismounted, and then Jacky Faber, the Angel of Death, went up to the front door and knocked, with my sad burden in my hand.

My knock was answered by a tall man with gray hair and beard, who nevertheless looked very much like Bardot, and who, as soon as he saw me and what I held in my hands, knew what awful news I had brought. A woman came into the room, and seeing the tears pour down my face, immediately sat down and buried her face in her hands.

"I...I am sorry to tell you this, but your son Captain Pierre Bardot is dead. He was a brave man and a good friend to me." I was gasping for breath then, but I pushed on. "I was with him when he died and I want you to know that he died easy. He told me of letters to you that he had in his pocket and I swore to him that I would deliver them. Oh, God. I can't stand it!"

I fell to my knees on the floor and covered my own face with my hands. "I saw him die and I saw him buried proper, and here is his jacket and his sword," I wail. "He ... he gave the sword to me, but you should have it ... I..."

The father puts his hands on my shaking shoulders and says, "No. You shall keep the sword, boy. I want no other son of mine to take it up and go off to war. One son for France is enough. Thank you for coming to us this way. I know it is hard for you, for it is plain that you loved him as we did. It ... it is good to know that he had a friend as constant as you. It will be a comfort to us later."

I picked myself up and staggered out and left them to their grief.

When I got to Paris, I took myself, and my horse, whom I had named Rudolf, in honor of his German heritage, to
Le Palais de Tuileries
and marched Rudy straight up the front steps, scattering various overdressed minions, and announced that I had a message from the Emperor Napoléon to the Empress Joséphine, and was met with much derisive laughter, considering the state of my clothing and general dishevelment.

"Not long ago, I was on the battlefield of Jena, next to
l'Empereur,
" I say to the man guarding the door. "What were you doing on that day, M'sieur? Powdering your bum?" With that I whip out the safe passage with the big blue
N,
signed by Napoléon himself. He doesn't say anything after that, so I dismount and am ushered into the palace. Rudy, however, has to stay outside. Pity, that.

It is, of course, a glorious place, but I think I am done with glory and glorious things and all that so I am not cowed by it all.

I am asked for the letter, but I wave them off and I tell them that
l'Empereur
desired that I place the letter directly in Joséphine's own hand, and that they should all bugger off as I am growing impatient with mincing, groveling courtiers.

I am told to wait, so I flop myself down in a gilt chair that, if sold, I know could keep the London Home for Little Wanderers going for at least ten years. My eyes range over the paintings on the wall, the fine tapestries, the elegant statues, and I find myself falling asleep again.

Eventually I am roused and escorted into the Empress's inner chambers. She, dressed beautifully, of course, is seated at a desk and surrounded by ladies of the court. She looks up, I bow, present the letter, accept her thanks, and then walk backward out of the room, 'cause that's what you do with royalty—you ain't never supposed to show 'em your ass is why.

Funny,
I thought as I left the place,
she looked like any ordinary woman, under all that finery.

I had taken Rudy to the stable where I had bought Mathilde—was it only three weeks ago that I did that?—as the people there seemed to have been kind to Mathilde when she was a resident here. 'Course, I only get ten sous on the franc, but what the hell, it will be enough to hold me for a while and I am getting hungry. The bridle and saddle go with him, too, the saddle being well polished by my bottom over these past weeks. I keep my pistols and shove them into my knapsack and shoulder it. Bardot's saber, which is too long for me to wear about my waist, as it would drag the ground, I have strapped to my back such that the hilt rides above my right shoulder and the scabbard does not get in my way. I had lost my other sword in the battle, when I was thrown from my horse. Never had much of a chance to name that other one, and I ain't named this one yet as I've got to think hard on that, what with it being given to me by Bardot and all. Looking like a proper Tartar, I headed off to my old neighborhood.

I have no idea just what is going to happen to me now and where I will be going. Probably back to Madame Pelletier's and, well, there are worse things in the world than that. And it will be good to see Zoé and the girls again. I don't know, I'll just wait and see what happens.

I knew they would find me here, and sure enough, Jardineaux comes through the door just as I am finishing up, and sits down before me. I signal for a glass of wine for him, as it would look suspicious otherwise. I am learning this game.

"So," he says, ignoring the wine. "Report."

"The Grand Army is in Berlin. Kaiser Friedrich Wilhelm III has capitulated. The Fourth Coalition is shattered. Except for Russia, there are no more anti-Napoléon forces out there. Not to the north anyway. I hear Lord Wellesley is kicking up a fuss in Spain, though, but I'm sure you know about that. I believe Bonaparte intends to move his army north and fight Czar Alexander next year. I heard this from Marshals Lannes and Bertrand and Murat." I pick up a mussel shell from the stew and suck on it. "That Prince Murat is quite a fellow. We should have a few like him ourselves."

He gives a bit of a choke. "And just where did you meet these men?"

"In Napoléon's camp, and at the head of their various Corps. At Jena. Before, during, and after the battle."

"But how...? You...?"He now takes a drink of his wine.

"I was a messenger, remember? Of course I would be there. A fly on the wall, as it were, but there all the same. I do hold a commission as a Second Lieutenant in the Sixteenth Fusiliers. I have my papers in my pocket." I tap my breast pocket, but I do
not
tell him of that special message I had delivered at the start of the battle.

I take the napkin from my neck and dab at my lips.

"
Mon Dieu,
" exclaims Jardineaux, seeing the medal on my jacket. "What the hell is that?"

"What? Oh, that is the Legion of Honor Medal. Apparently
l'Empereur
thought I fought bravely at Jena. He was wrong. I was not brave, but I did do my duty for my men, I think, and so I shall keep it. Another glass of wine with you?"