General Wellesley ponders this, and then says, “Very well. Quarters will be found for you. Go there and refresh yourself and report back here at two o’clock. You will then tell me every single little thing you know of Napoleon Bonaparte—what he said to you, the orders he gave at Jena, how he was dressed, everything, down to the buckles on his shoes . . . Do you understand?”
I nod, give a medium Lawson Peabody curtsy, spin on my heel, and exit the room.
Another battle fought . . . and, I believe, won.
Chapter 3
Yes, Higgins, it was quite intense,” I say. “General Sir Arthur Wellesley is definitely a tough piece of work. I am due back in his office at two o’clock to report on my dealings with Napoleon. Will you accompany me?”
“Of course, Miss. Will you change?”
“Yes. I’ll wear my Hussar’s uniform—with the trousers. And the Legion of Honor, too.”
“Might that not be a bit extreme?” he asks, with raised eyebrow.
“Don’t care. I didn’t like the way I was treated this morning. If the great General doesn’t like it, he can shove it up his nose—his very large, extremely long, and very thin nose, I might add. Should fit.”
“Very well, Miss,” says Higgins. He opens my bag and takes out the dark blue uniform and drapes it over a chair.
“And have you gotten a horse for me? From what I hear, I might be needing one soon.”
The word is that there is a battle shaping up, a big one, and if I’m to be a part of it, I know I’ll feel better on the back of a good horse.
“Yes, Miss, a quite nice little gray mare. She is tethered in the stable around the corner. But here, stand up, and we shall get you changed.”
Higgins is billeted next door, which I find rather comforting. In general, even though these quarters are somewhat Spartan, on the whole, they’re not too bad. After all, we could be quartered in a tent, and then I would be sleeping on the ground. From what I have seen of it, the ground of Portugal looks to be no softer than that of Germany, when last I had the pleasure of slumbering on that unyielding earth . . . harder, even. The layout of this building gives me the feeling that it must have been a hotel of some sort before General Wellesley requisitioned it as his own.
“Changed? You say that like I am still in nappies, Higgins,” I say, bouncing to my feet and stripping off my outer clothing. I retain my short underdrawers and chemise. “I am wounded.”
“I am sorry, Miss. Please don’t take offense, but you do require quite a bit of . . . maintenance.”
“Aw, ’Iggins, luv,” I tease. “Ye know it’s coz I weren’t raised up proper.”
“Ummm . . . Here, first the trousers. Step in, please.” He holds out the pants.
I rest my hands on his shoulders to steady myself and step in. He pulls up the pants, tucks in the undershirt, and fastens the belt. The trousers match the jacket, both in color and fabric, with the addition of a strip of polished leather that runs up the inner side of each thigh, joining at the crotch. It is there to prevent chafing when one is in the saddle for a long time. My leather strips are quite well polished, owing to the time I wore them riding with the French army in Germany last year.
Higgins then adjusts the garment guards, the leather devices that rest under each of my armpits, put there because, while undergarments can be washed with strong soap and made fresh smelling and new again, fine broadcloth jackets cannot. When in a tight spot, I sweat like any other little piggy, and I expect to be in just that kind of spot this afternoon. Knowing that, Higgins has dosed the shields with an extra bit of wheat powder, so I should be set for a while in the way of armpit dryness. This is good, for I would not like to mess up the fine jacket that Higgins now holds up for me.
It is dark blue, a gray-blue rather than a navy hue, with much gold braid frogging across the front, and three rows of vertical buttons. I climb in and Higgins fastens all the frogs and buttons. It has a high collar, so we don’t go with the spilling-out lace with this one. It feels good as it tightens around me.
The boots are back on, my pants are tucked inside, my sword harness is strapped about my hips, and Esprit hangs, once again, by my side.
Higgins has taken out my Legion of Honor medal, and I turn to receive it on the left side of my chest—just where l’Empereur wears his.
“There,” he says, giving my shoulders a bit of a dust-off. “I believe you are presentable.”
“Thank you, Higgins. Have we anything to eat?” asks the ever-hungry me.
“Alas, no, Miss. But I did manage to bring along several bottles of quite good Madeira. Shall I crack one?”
“Please do, Higgins. Dealing with General Wellesley is sure to be hot work, and I’m certainly not looking forward to this afternoon’s session.”
Higgins brings forth a bottle, places two glasses on the small table in the room, expertly draws the cork, and pours out two glasses of the ruby liquid. Ah, yes, that Higgins, he’s always prepared.
He hands me a glass and takes one himself. I hold mine up to him. “A sua saude, Joao,” I say, and take a good long pull on the very fine, very sweet wine. Mmmmm. Ah, yes, this is really soothing to a very dry throat.
“And to your health, also, Miss,” answers Higgins, lifting his own glass to me. “Saude.”
Before we had left England, both Higgins and I had been given some quick instruction on the major differences between the Spanish language, in which we are both fairly conversant, and Portuguese, a closely related Romance language, so we have practiced speaking it during the voyage here. The languages are similar but not exactly the same.
We both plunk our empty glasses back down on the table and Higgins hands me my bearskin shako, with its polished leather brim, gold braid, and beaten-silver shield. After donning it, I turn to regard myself in the mirror that hangs on the wall.
“There. That ought’a nail ’em,” I say with some satisfaction. “Let’s go.”
We enter the hallowed chamber to find a great number of what I perceive to be high-ranking officers, some of whom are bending over a large map spread across several long tables lashed together. Others confer at a single table. Sir Arthur Wellesley is one of these, I see. I also notice a sideboard laden with food and beverage.
Higgins and I advance across the floor to stand in front of General Wellesley. Heads jerk up and a hush falls across the place as I bring my hand to my shako brim in salute, announcing in a curt tone, “Lieutenant Faber, reporting as ordered, Sir. May I present Mr. John Higgins, also of our naval service? Mr. Higgins, General Arthur Wellesley.”
I whip off my shako, stick it under my arm, stand at attention, and wait.
Wellesley, calmly aware of the stir I have caused with my entrance, looks us over and disposes of Higgins first.
“Mr. Higgins, welcome,” he says, plainly not meaning it. “Since you are allied with this . . . creature, I assume you are also sent as a spy upon my operations?”
“My good sir,” says Higgins with a bow. “While it is true I am a member of Naval Intelligence, I am most often put to use as an analyzer of raw data rather than as a field agent. I do hope to be of some service to you in that capacity.”
“Ummm . . .” says Wellesley doubtfully. “But, whatever. This is my spymaster and cryptographer, Mr. Scovell.” He gestures to his right to a well-dressed civilian, who wears an expression of avid interest.
“Mr. Higgins!” fairly shouts this man. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance! You come highly recommended by our mutual friend, Mr. Peel! Oh, please do come around, my dear man; there is much to discuss!”
Hmmm . . . How come I don’t come highly recommended anywhere? Why am I never received as such? Grrr . . .
Higgins, with a slight nod to me, does, indeed, go around the table to confer with Mr. Scovell. They are immediately head to head over some papers and soon I hear expressions of You must look at this, Sir, and My word! Fascinating! How did you ever . . . ?
And so I realize that Higgins is lost to m
e for the time being and I am on my own, as General Wellesley now casts his gimlet eye upon me.
“You will now explain why you are again dressed in an outrageous costume.”
“This is not a costume, Sir,” I say with narrowed eyes. “This is the very uniform I wore when I was in l’Empereur’s service. I had thought, General, that you might want to see me in it.”
I sense, gathering about me, several large males whom I had formerly seen ranged around the map table.
What is this, then? I hear muttered from those looming over me, and Who the hell is she?
“My good sir,” I say, as if we have been passing conversation of the most pleasant sort, “do you realize that if I had received you on any of my ships—and I do own two, you know; four hundred and fifty tons’ displacement, combined, by the way—that I would have given you refreshment and bade you to sit down and make yourself comfortable, rather than make you stand trembling like a disobedient schoolgirl, as you now force me to do?”
Again, the frosty piercing look.
“Very well,” he says. “Steward! Prepare for her a plate.”
“And a glass of wine, Sir?” I ask.
“Yes, and that, too!” he blusters. “And you may sit yourself right there!”
He points at a chair across from him, where I go to place the Faber bottom firmly upon it, taking great care not to trip over my sword as I do so. The steward comes over and places a plate of various meats, cheeses, and bread in front of me. A glass of wine appears, and I take it up and hold it before me, the brim at level with the General’s eyes.
“Rule, Britannia,” I say, then knock back a good mouthful, daring him to not return the toast.
Wellesley picks up his own glass in acknowledgment of the offhand toast, as well he must, lest he be seen as less than patriotic in this exchange.
“Long may Britannia rule,” he growls. The liquid in his glass is pale, and the bowl in front of him holds what seems to be a rather thin gruel. It is plain that the man does not take much pleasure in the more sensual delights of this world.
I lay in to some of the food put before me and I find it very good, and I wait for his next thrust. It does not take long.
“That medal. What is it?”
“It is the Legion of Honor, Sir.”
“How came you by it?”
“Napoleon gave it to me.”
“Where and for what reason?”
“In his coach, after the Battle of Jena. He thought I had given good service. Perhaps, when this is all over, you will award such a medal to me, too.”
“I sincerely doubt that. Why were you in his coach?”
“He offered me a lift, and then gave me a letter to deliver to Empress Josephine. Which I later did.”
The circle of other officers crowds in around us.
Unbelievable! It is not possible!
Wellesley ignores the skeptical throng and says, “Very well, girl. Tell your story.”
And I do it. I lay out the thing as clearly as I can, from the overland march of the Grand Army—Yes, I saw Napoleon himself, holding a lantern such that his men could drag a gun carriage out of a ditch in the middle of the night—to the morning of the great battle, when a stiff breeze swept away the fog that had covered the field. Ah, that is much better, he had said, as he’d surveyed his battalions—they were one-hundred-and-sixty-thousand-strong, five Corps, under Lannes, Ney, Davout, Bernadotte, and Augereau, and Marshal Murat’s Reserve Cavalry. And, yes, I carried many messages back and forth between them all, including the last one to Murat, ordering him to charge the Prussian line. Right, that’s where I got that Imperial Seal . . . and, apparently, earned the enmity of many of my countrymen.
“Enmity, indeed,” grumbles the General. He stands. “Let us go to the map.”
I rise, knock off the rest of my glass, and follow him to the table and gaze down at the display laid thereon. It is a map of the environs around the town of Vimeiro.
Wellesley points to an area east of a river. “General Junot has massed his troops there. Thirteen thousand men under Generals Delaborde, Loison, Montmorand, Thomieres, and Margaron. What is your opinion on how they will attack, for surely they will, the day after tomorrow, by our best estimate?”
I consider, thinking back to the instructions in the art of war given to me by my great and good friend Captain Pierre Bardot . . .
You see, Bouvier, this formation, being essentially a square, gives l’Empereur the ability to attack in any direction, merely by ordering simple flanking maneuvers. And, since the length and the depth of the army is only a two-day march, l’Empereur will be able to bring down the full force of his attack on any point in only forty-eight hours. Brilliant, n’est-ce pas? It is not for nothing that he has been called the God of War.
“I know, General, that l’Empereur prefers to fight in columns of men, rather than lines. His generals mostly follow his example. So, Junot will bring his main force through here.” I point my finger at a space between two low ridges.
“I agree with your assessment,” says the General. “They will attack in columns, and we will fight in lines, and we will win the day.”
“And, eventually, the war, Sir?” I ask with a bit of mockery in my tone. Perhaps that dollop of wine that is warming my belly has given me a bit of Dutch courage.
“Eventually.”
“You feel you are the one to bring down Napoleon Bonaparte?”
“I do.”
“Good luck with that, Sir.”
He looks at me and says, “You know, Miss, there are several things about you that really irritate me—”
“I am sorry, Sir, if I give offense.”
“—the chief of which is the reverence in your voice when you say ‘l’Empereur.’”
I puff up a bit and say, “He was kind to me.”
He considers this for a moment and then says, “Oh, he was? Then how kind do you find this? He has ordered his generals in Portugal and Spain to be utterly ruthless in putting down the popular uprisings that are springing up all over the peninsula.”
“So? War is hell. We both know that.”
“Yes. But do you know that his General Louis-Henri Loison, when laying siege to the town of Evora last month, demanded surrender of the city, and when the inhabitants refused, he ordered a charge, overwhelmed the defenders, and then had every surviving man, woman, and child killed?”
“I cannot believe that,” I gasp. “Children, too?”
“Yes. A baby skewered on a steel bayonet and held high is apparently the new Napoleonic standard.”
I am staggered—sickened—and my face must show it, for Wellesley smiles a grim smile and says, “I believe I have cracked your reserve, Miss Faber.”
“In-indeed you have, Sir. May I be excused? I do not feel well.”
“Yes? Well, get out.”
I turn and plunge out the door.
I need some air . . .
Gasping, I run to the stables and order up my horse. As soon as she is saddled—and no, I don’t want a goddamn side- saddle!—I am up on her back and away I ride.
I want to keep riding west till I leave this poor country, with all its grief and horror and misery, to what’s sure to be its unhappy future. I want to get to the coast and book passage back to Boston and pick up the Nancy B. and sail off to Rangoon to be with Jaimy in his hour of need. I want . . . I want . . .
It doesn’t matter what you want, girl . . .
I see a troop of light cavalry up ahead and rein in next to them.
“Lieutenant!” I call out to the officer in charge. “Can you tell me where the Seventh Brigade, Twentieth Light Dragoons is quartered?”
The young man looks me over, salutes, and says, “About three miles up ahead, on the right, by a low ridge.”
“Thank you, Suh!” I shout, returning his salute. Then, digging my heels into the mare’s flanks, I fly off down the road to seek solace in the sweet company of Captain Lord Richard Allen.
Chapter 4 r />
James Emerson Fletcher
Seeker of Wisdom and Enlightenment
The House of Chen
Rangoon
Jacky Faber
Location unknown, at least to me
My dearest Jacky,
I am, at this moment, kneeling in a Buddhist temple, clad in a saffron robe, with my head bowed. The Lady Sidrah kneels by my side.
I am trying to bring my mind to some sort of eventual understanding and acceptance of your death and resurrection, and the actual death of sweet Bess, she who stood by my side in my hours of madness, she who paid the ultimate price of friendship to me and died in her own heart’s blood back there in the dark on Blackheath Moor.
Yes, Jacky, memories of that trying time are slowly coming back to me—how in my despair at your loss, I turned in a maddened state to robbing the broad highway, with revenge uppermost in my shattered mind, revenge against those who had condemned you and caused, I had thought, your ultimate destruction: Bliffil, whom I now remember that I killed in cold blood there in the moonlight on that dark road, and the detestable Flashby, whom I fear still lives and, and . . .
Sidrah’s hand is placed on my shaking arm. Even in this quiet sanctuary, even with all the Oriental medicines that have been doled out to me, even with my brother monks’ gentle instruction in the Way of the Buddha, even with all that, still, sometimes, I begin to shake, uncontrollably, with rage.
Yes, Sir Harry Flashby, that unspeakable bastard, continues to draw breath and, I suspect, free air at that. My kind host, Lee Chen, head of the House of Chen, whom you know as Chopstick Charlie, chortled as he recounted your rather elaborate plan to substitute Flashby for me in the ultimate capture of the Black Highwayman: Confucius be praised, you should have seen his face, Mr. Fletcher, eyes bugging out like a squeezed toad as he was hauled off to prison! Ha! But we both know, Jacky, that the slippery snake will manage to wriggle out of Newgate and will soon be back in a position to do damage. And, I am sure, he has his nemesis, Jacky Faber, full in his sights.