"Dufour," I say to my orderly, who had, commendably, gotten the two buckets of water I had asked for and had placed them in my tent, "thank you."
After Bardot left me off, I had revived myself by plunging my head into one of the buckets, and then I sent Denis out. I stripped down and spent the next half hour washing both myself and my small clothes, all of which really needed the washing after the events of the day. After I laid them out to dry, I put on my nightshirt, crawled into my sleeping bag, and then called him back in.
"You shall put your bedroll over there on the other side of the tent and sleep there. If you hear me scream in the night, you will take that rag and dip it in the water and then lay it over my face until I stop and come out of the nightmare. Do you understand? Very well. Good night, Dufour. Sleep soundly. You acquitted yourself well today."
I, myself, am asleep before my head hits my rolled-up uniform jacket that I use for a pillow every night.
Chapter 36
James Fletcher
Snoggins Pier, Margate, England
Jacky Faber
Somewhere in France
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 question 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."