Dearest Jacky,
Yes, Jacky, we now know where you are, or, at least, where you were when you were last seen, thanks to the invaluable Higgins.
Figuring logically that the Admiralty would have more use for you alive than dead, Higgins began to worm his way into the Navy's Intelligence Branch. Armed with impeccable references from the very influential and powerful Hollingsworth family, he managed to gain an interview with First Lord Grenville, and immediately established a rapport with that gentleman. Meetings with a Mr. Peel followed, and then conferences with a Dr. Sebastian, with whom I believe you are acquainted. Higgins, or should I say Agent Higgins, is now well established in the Intelligence Branch.
I shudder to think what danger you might be in, dear girl, but then I know you to be extremely resourceful and hope for the best. Yes, I know you have been sent to spy upon the French, and fear not, none of this is actually being written down. It is only my random thoughts while I think upon you as I look out over the bay.
Believe it or not, as I'm pondering all of this, I am standing at the rail of your own beautiful little schooner, moored here in Margate. I have once again left my family's home on Brattle Lane in London, as I found it stifling there, and have taken up my quarters on your Nancy B. Alsop. Mr. John Higgins, as the senior corporate officer here at Faber Shipping, Worldwide, has seen fit to appoint me Captain in your absence, and I thank him for it. Being here has chased many shadows from my mind.
Now that I'm fully recovered, I have gone out to the Home for Little Wanderers, where I have acquainted myself with your grandfather, Reverend Alsop, as well as the delightful Mairead. She and her new husband, Ian Mc-Connaughey, send their love and wishes for your safe return, as do all of us. In addition, I have met up with John Tinker—yes, Tink, our old shipmate and charter member of the Brotherhood. He is now on board the Nancy B as Second Mate and seems to revel in his new position. Like the rest of us, he wants to be off to sea, but we must wait to see what develops. Jim Tanner, as First Mate, has come a long way since last I saw him. He, too, is anxious to be off to reunite with his new wife, Clementine, and for that I cannot blame him. But I try not to think too much upon that.
Young Daniel Prescott is coming along well as a seaman, and I mean to rate him Able soon. He is quite a contrast to John Thomas and Smasher McGee, who have spent most of their time in jail during their stay here, for fighting in taverns. I have had to bail them out several times, as well as call on my brother George for his legal services to keep them from being transported to Botany Bay. At this moment they are belowdecks and confined to quarters. I hope they will stay there.
We have taken out the Nancy B several times for short runs, and oh, yes, she is a sweet sailer. She reminds me so much of you, Jacky. Quick, responsive, playful, and spirited as a new colt as she cuts through the waves. Were it not for my worry about you, I should be supremely happy.
I sleep in your cabin, in your bed, even, and I gaze about at the things you have in here—mementos of your travels in the Caribbean, North Africa, and other far places. I notice sculptures of bears and seals carved from parts of whalebone, and other pieces scrimshawed with pictures of the taking of whales and sightings of mermaids. Is that an actual shrunken head? No, it cannot be. There's a guitar leaning against the bulkhead ... and there are rugs from Persia on the deck, and boldly decorated cloth from Africa hanging on the wall, and I cannot imagine what that is ... and I shan't ask.
But the thing that warms my heart the most is your portrait of me that hangs on the wall next to the head of your bed. You have made me far too handsome and noble-looking, but still it gladdens me to see it there. Ah, yes...
Higgins cautions us to be ready, as he perceives things are happening quickly in France. He is not at liberty to say what exactly, but he has contacts there now and is convinced that he knows, and that gives me great comfort. That, and the fact that what you are doing is for the greater good of England, our homeland.
We wait, Jacky, for news of you.
Your Most Humble & etc.
Jaimy
Chapter 37
"Come, Bouvier, let us go a-whoring!"
I have been spending a lot of time with Bardot—he is excellent company, and after the work of the day, we have been hitting some of the makeshift taverns that the camp followers have set up to cater to junior officers. We were one of the first ones over the river, so we have some time to kill while the rest of the Army catches up. I bring my fiddle to add some joy to the proceedings, and we have a good time. Bardot has embellished the firing-squad story so that not only am I shown as having stood up bravely, head held high before the guns, but also, supposedly, I had delivered a speech proclaiming my joy at the privilege of giving up my life for the glory of France.
"He stood up before the firing squad, threw back his head, and cried out, 'Shoot, if you will, you lousy Kraut bastards, but the last words upon my lips shall be Vive la France! and damn the whole sorry lot of you Prussian pigs straight to Hell!'"
I protest that it was not that way at all, but now it seems that I am given even more credit for modestly disavowing Bardot's tale. Ah, well, I seldom have to buy my own drink.
When it comes right down to actually going off with one of the girls, I manage to make myself scarce so that it appears as if I've already followed one into her tent should Bardot look for me. In fact, I'm lurking outside, waiting for enough time to elapse so I can go back in and wink lewdly at Captain Bardot if he sits again at our table.
"Come on! Before they're all taken!"
But this time I have other plans so I beg off, saying I have a last message to deliver.
"Too bad for you. I hear they've got a new crop of fillies down at Madame Augustine's, and it's a fine evening for a gallop, my boy!"
I tell him I'll try to come along later and he leaves.
When I am sure that he is out of sight, I duck into my tent and dive into my knapsack. I pull out several items of clothing and stuff them into my leather message pouch. They just barely fit.
"Don't wait up for me, Dufour. I can roll out my own sleeping bag. Just set out the bucket of water, as usual."
"Oui, M'sieur."
I leave without my shako, but as I often go without it when off duty, nobody notices. The Clodhoppers are too tired to lift their heads to look at me anyway, the poor fellows having been assigned road-repair duty today, where they worked like mules—Artillery Corps does like its roads smooth.
I head down to where the taverns and brothels are set up, then skip quickly past Madame Augustine's, where I hear Bardot's hearty laugh from within, then take myself toward an establishment that I know is strictly an inn because I have checked it out. Well, sort of strictly an inn—it's set up as a tavern inside with tents pitched outside for rent by the hour, for whoever might want to use them. It is not always harlots—no, sometimes the love-struck wives and girlfriends of young officers follow their men into the field, and when they have the opportunity to meet, they need their privacy, and Velour's Traveling Inn provides just that.
I go into Velour's and plunk down several coins for a couple of hours' rental of a tent.
"Thank you, Lieutenant. The third tent to the left," says the clerk. "Fresh linens in there for you; yes, Sir, I do hope you enjoy your stay."
I give him a wink and go out and into my rented tent.
I take off my boots, stockings, trousers, jacket, and shirt, and put on the one dress I had brought with me, and then I pull on my wig. It's the brunette one, and the hair comes down to about my shoulder blades. When I had packed it, I figured that it would be a good contrast to my regular hair color; plus its ringlets come in close around my face, hiding my white eyebrow. The dress is the Empire style, coming down fairly low on my chest, being gathered up underneath that same chest, then falling in pleats down to my ankles. It is low on my back as well, and my dark tresses brush my bare shoulders. I think he will like it.
Why are you doing this? I ask myself, and indeed, it is a que
stion that needs to be asked. It is risky because I could be discovered, and I'd have a very hard time explaining certain things away. Very well, self, here are my reasons: It is because I have been playing a boy for the last three weeks or so, and I'm a bit tired of it, so I look forward to an evening of being a girl again. Also, I'm sure I can get away with it—remember, people see what they expect to see. And the last reason is ... I really like Jean-Paul de Valdon. And that's reason enough for me.
I wrap one of my silk scarves around my head and stick my head out of the tent to look about. Good. Nobody around. I step out and head up the path to Velour's front flap, which is where I had told Jean-Paul that I would meet him this evening.
And there he is, looking fine in his best uniform—blue jacket, white turnouts, gray lapels, white pants, black boots, gold sword, and blue bicorne hat.
Yum...
He looks at me and recognition comes over his face. And the look on that face is worth all the risk. It glows, and I'm sure mine does, too. We move toward each other ... but someone gets in the way.
Damn! It is a Sergeant of the Guards, plainly drunk, who lurches between us.
"Ha. Look what we have here. Come, ma petite," he slurs. "We have some business to get done." He throws his arm across my shoulders.
"Pardon, M'sieur, but I am for someone else. Not you. Now, please go away."
"I'll not. There. Get in the bushes, girl. Move it." He grabs me by the neck and pushes me roughly toward a hedge that lines the path. Damn! He's big and he's strong, and I—
"Back away, man," orders Jean-Paul, his sword drawn and pointed at the man's throat.
The Sergeant releases his hand from my neck, looks up at Jean-Paul, and sneers, "Officer's meat, eh? I should have known. Much too clean for the likes of us real soldiers."
"Off with you, before I have you shot for disobeying an officer's order," says Jean-Paul.
"Right, Sir," the man mutters scornfully as he stumbles away. "Damned cavalry pouf."
"No, Jean-Paul," I say, putting a restraining hand on his sword arm. "Let him go. We haven't time for that. Come with me. Let us go in and have some fun."
We enter Velour's and sit at a corner table. There are several couples at other tables nearby. Wine is brought along with some plates of food.
"So you see, Jean-Paul, we are now out as boy and girl, just as you wanted," I say, putting my hand on his and giving myself a little bounce. "It is nice, n'est-ce pas?"
"You could not be more lovely," he says, ignoring the food and bringing his hot gaze full upon me. "I can't stand it."
"Yes, you can, mon cher," I answer. "Look here, Jean-Paul. We do not have all that much time together in this place, at this moment. Let us not waste it." I select a choice piece of pastry and put it to his lips. "And now a glass of wine with you. Please, Jean-Paul. Relax. Enjoy this."
He takes his wineglass and drinks from it, all the while not taking his eyes from mine. "All right," he says.
There is no music in this place and it is too bad. I'd really like to dance with him, but...
"Shall I sing you a song, Jean-Paul? Would you like me to do that?"
He nods and I stand to face him. Then I begin to sing.
Plaisir d'amour
Ne dure qu'un moment.
Chagrin d'amour
Dure toute la vie.
It is the same song I sang at the House of the Rising Sun in New Orleans, and one of the few love songs I know in French, although, thanks to Bardot, I now know plenty of really risqué ones. I'm about to give Jean-Paul the second verse when I'm shocked to see Bardot, himself, and two of his cronies come into the place, and he's looking right at me.
Damn!
I plunk myself back down in my chair real quick and nuzzle into Jean-Paul's side.
"Bravo," shouts Bardot, clapping his hands. "That was nicely sung, girl."
Right now this girl is very glad she made that decision never to sing while being Jacques Bouvier, else he might have recognized my voice!
I nod my thanks, shaking my wig's tresses even more into my face, but I needn't have worried—it ain't my face he's lookin' at.
"New girl, eh?" he says, his eyes fixed on my bodice. He sways slightly, plainly already a bit drunk. He looks at the other couples in the place, then sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out some coins. "I'll give you ten francs for her. What do you say, boy?"
"Sir! I must protest!" cries Jean-Paul, jumping to his feet. "She is my fiancée, Sir, who has come to be with me here. She is a good girl from a good family, and I resent your insinuation!"
"That true?" asks Bardot of me, not looking particularly frightened by Jean-Paul. I nod with the big waif eyes and try to look very small.
"Damn me. Young love, of all things, here in this place," sighs Bardot, bowing to Jean-Paul. "I compliment you, M'sieur. She is a neat piece, and she must love you very much to come all this way. Well, enjoy her, boy. May your tent reverberate with her squeals of ecstasy. Adieu."
Bardot turns from us and looks about the place again and plainly does not find it to his liking.
"It's too quiet in here," he growls. "We need a tune, by God. Where the hell is Bouvier? We need his fiddle. Hmmm ... Maybe he's back at Augustine's by now." Bardot is quite well into his cups, it seems.
"I believe he carries messages to Murat concerning—" begins one of his comrades.
"To hell with all that. I need a song and I need a girl and I need them now and it's plain I'll get neither one here. Let's go, mes amis. Back to Augustine's."
That was a close one... I'm thinkin', slowly letting out my breath ... can't afford any more like that.
In the silence that follows I put my hand on Jean-Paul's. "Come, mon cher, let us take up our bottle and go. I still have some time left on my tent rental."
We have already paid for our food and drink, so we do not have to tarry on our way out. We cross the path, and I take his hand to lead him into my tent.
***
Somewhat later, there is a scratching on the outside of the tent and a voice says, "Time, M'sieur."
Our lips part and I catch my breath and say, "You must go, Jean-Paul. I must change and go back."
"I do not want to leave you, Jacqui, not now, not ever,—"
"You must, my dear. We will be missed."
In the dim light, I watch him stand and slowly put on his jacket and rebuckle his sword about his waist. When he is fully dressed he says, "I must have some token ... something of you, Jacqui, to carry with me into the fight."
I laugh, laying my head back against the pillow. "Like the knights of old, eh, Sir Jean of the Silken Mustache?"
How sweet.
"Very well, my bold chevalier, you shall have my silk scarf as your favor. Here." I stand and scoop it up off the floor where it fell soon after we entered the tent.
He takes it and presses it to his face. From the look in his eyes, I gather there is still some lingering perfume. I hope you enjoy it, Jean-Paul.
"One last kiss ... ummmm ... oh, yes ... now off with you. We'll meet again, my very good friend, and soon."
He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and stuffs my scarf behind the lapel of his jacket. Then he takes my hand and kisses the back of it, bows, and is gone.
I heave my own great sigh and climb back into my uniform, stuff my dress and wig back in my pouch, then I, too, am out of the tent and making my way back through the bars and brothels from which come much raucous laughter and voices raised in song.
I think about going into Augustine's and meeting up with Bardot again, but I decide against it and hurry past. I've had enough excitement for one day. And don't stretch your luck, girl...
I find that I have already extended it and stretched it very thin, indeed.
I see the tents of my Clodhoppers up ahead, beyond a small stand of trees, and am heading for my own sweet shelter when a hand reaches out from the shadows to grab me by the neck and drag me back into the trees. I see with horror that once again it is the dru
nken Guards' Sergeant who had tried to force himself upon me a couple of hours before.
He pulls my face up to his and I can smell the cheap rotgut brandy on his breath.
"You dare to touch an officer, man? You will be shot for that!" I bleat.
He grunts and presses his slobbery, whiskery mouth on mine. I jerk back, astounded.
"Officer, huh?" he asks, grinning widely. "I don't see no officer here, non. Hee, hee. What I see is a stupid girl. You know why? Because I sat and watched, I did, after your little pouf boy stuck his puny sword in my face and you went off with him. Oh, yes, I did, because I've got patience, I do, and I can wait for what I want. And then what did I see? I saw a boy and a girl go into that tent, and yes, I know it was a girl 'cause I seen her tétons about to pop out of her dress before. And then, later, the boy comes out. And then, what do you know? I bet you know, don't you? Right. Another boy comes out. Hee, hee ... Only, it's not a boy, it's you that comes out, dearie. What's a poor old Sergeant to think?" He runs his other hand over my tail and squeezes. "What's a poor old Sergeant to do? Hmmm?"
Oh, God!
"Oh, that's nice, oh yes, it is. Now what you are going to do is get behind that bush and drop your drawers, girl, all the way off, or else I'm gonna tell just about everybody what I know about a certain young officer, and you'll be dead. Think about it. Now get 'em off!"
He reaches for the buttons on his own britches and pushes me farther back into the bushes.
I fall down, then get to my knees and reach for my shiv ... but oh, no, it is not there. I had decided that there would be no need for it tonight, plus it would interfere with my getting into my female gear, so I left it wrapped up in its sheath in my knapsack.
Damn! Stupid!
I think to run so I stumble to my feet, but even if I managed to escape, he would tell, and I would be undone. I see no way out ... except to call out...
"Clodhoppers! To me!" I cry out, loud enough for my men to hear but not so loud as to alert the other encampments nearby.