"Ah. Well, I was sent off to deliver the news of the Marshal's victory to the Emperor. It seems that Murat had lost his chosen messenger in the ah ... scuffle, shall we say?"
"You must get back to Murat's staff. Do you want to have survived the war only to be shot for desertion?"
"Let 'em wait. Let 'em shoot me, for all that. The war's over, anyway," he says. "Look! There's another one of those dirty vultures!" He fires off a shot, and I see a man scurry back into the woods. "Run, you piece of merde!" he shouts, and then reloads.
"Randall, please! You must take control of yourself! Please! For me, if nothing else!" I plead, clasping my hands together and beginning to cry. "This is war! What the hell did you expect?"
Randall goes quiet and looks about him. Grave trenches are being dug on this side of the hill, too, and men are hauling the dead into long lines and getting them ready to go into the ditch.
"I did not expect this," says Randall. "I expected... honor ... glory ... a chance to test myself. Not this ... not this ... slaughterhouse."
"You acquitted yourself with honor, Randall, you must know that. You saved my life today. If you had not done that, my body would be one of those being dumped into that ditch."
He looks off. "You know, for all my swaggering about and dueling with the lads back at college, that was the first man I ever killed. All the other nonsense was just boys' games we played, thinking ourselves men." He looks down at his hands. "I killed many more than just that one this day, though. We hounded them and ran them down, then we killed them. We slashed at them and shot them with our pistols. Our lancers ran them through with their spears. Our cannon blasted them to bloody pieces. We killed them as they tried to stand and fight, and we killed them when they tried to run. We just ... killed them."
He is silent for a while, then he lifts the bottle again. "Here, have a drink. Drink to love and war and honor and glory and all that."
I uncork it and smell it—it is very strong brandy.
I take it and say, "To love and to peace and to no more war." I upend it and knowingly break my vow, thinking it better to take a small taste to seal the truth of what I have just so devoutly wished for, and then I toss the half-full bottle against a rock, where it shatters. "You must be presentable when you report back to Murat. You know that."
He says nothing and then chuckles. "Oh, the ever-so-right, ever-so-bright, ever-so-clever Jacky Faber, Hero of the Great Race at Dovecote Downs, Hero of Trafalgar, Savior of the Bloodhound, Hero of the Battle of Jena, tells me to be ... presentable."
"Come on, Randall. None of that is true, and you know it."
"You led the charge today, you can't deny it. It is the talk of all the camps. There you were, out in front of us all, waving your sword above your head and screaming for Prussian blood just like any Viking Valkyrie."
"I didn't lead anything. My horse ran away with me. I was screaming in terror."
"That is not how the stories will be told."
"I can't help that."
He sighs and goes on. "Dovecote seems so very far away, doesn't it, Jacky? Never thought I'd say that I miss the place, but I do."
"So do I, Randall."
Again a scavenger creeps out of the woods, and once more Randall levels his pistol.
"Randall, don't. It won't help anything."
He aims carefully, but he does not fire. He lowers the gun.
"You are right. The dead are dead and they do not care." He stands still for a while, his pistol pointed at the ground. "You know, Jacky, when I was at Napoléon's headquarters today, I learned that we lost five thousand men and the Prussians lost twenty-five thousand. Thirty thousand men... think of that ... thirty thousand..."
There are corpses strewn all across the plain, and there are bodies that lie close to Randall and me. He gazes down at one of them, a young Prussian soldier whose lifeless face is pressed into the dust next to the road. "He was hardly more than a boy."
"Aye. His mother probably knitted his socks for him before he left home."
Randall nods and puts his pistol into its holster. He goes to his horse, which is tethered to a tree nearby, and takes up the reins. I follow him over.
"I will do my duty, and I'll follow Murat to the end of this campaign, and then I will give up my commission and return to Dovecote. If you get there before I do, you may tell them that. A kiss, Jacky, and good-bye."
He leans down to take the kiss, and then swings into the saddle. He spurs his mount to a trot and rides off. I watch him till he is out of sight.
Good-bye, Randall. I hope we'll meet again, and in a better place than this.
I return to my men and see that things are ready. The bodies of Dubois and Vedel are laid in the grave, I say the words, and the dirt is put over them.
"Now," I say, brushing back the tears, "let us see to Chaisson."
My remaining Clodhoppers and I walk toward the hospital tent, followed by Papa Boule in the wagon, and as I go I wonder, Jean-Paul, what has become of you? Where are you now? I offer up a quick prayer and then duck my head to go into Hell on earth.
Amongst the dead and dying, amid the shrieking and the quiet, we find Chaisson and are glad to discover that his wounds are minor, and if infection does not set in, he should recover completely. I give him a pat on his shoulder and compliment him on his bravery and hope that he is comfortable. In fact, the doctors demand we haul him out of there to make room for others in more need. We do it and get Chaisson out to the wagon, and then I go back in to see if I can find word of Jean-Paul ... but it is not him that I find.
As I corner a doctor to ask if he has word of a Lieutenant Jean-Paul de Valdon, he looks at a list he holds in his hand and says no. Then I feel Dufour, who has seldom left my side since my return, tugging at my sleeve.
"What is it, Denis?" I ask, irritated, as I am so very, very tired, and really hurt, and sick of all this.
"Look, Lieutenant," says Dufour, pointing to a man stretched out on a cot. "It is our Captain."
What? Whose Captain?
And then I see.
Bardot? Oh, please, no!
But it is.
I rush to his side, sit down by him, and take his hand. His jacket has been taken off and lies on the ground next to him. His sword leans against the wall of the tent behind his head. His midsection is covered with blood. There is a doctor next to him looking at another man and I say, "Doctor...?" and he peers over at me and then down at Bardot. He shakes his head, and then walks away to the next cot.
Of all of them, the one I thought the most indestructible!
"Oh, Captain, I am so sorry!" I wail, and squeeze his hand and Bardot opens his eyes and looks at me.
"Ah, Bouvier," he says, his voice hardly above a whisper. "Good to see you. Glad you made it through."
I am unable to say anything.
"I want you to have my sword, Bouvier. It's right there. And my jacket ... there are letters for my family in there ... and some money ... and for God's sake, stop crying."
"I can't, Sir, I'm sorry."
He sighs. "It's not so bad, this dying business. I am not in great pain, not like some of these poor devils. I am a soldier, after all, and I lived as one and now I die as one and that is as it should be—and my wound is on the front, so I die with some honor." He pauses, and then goes on. "Trouble is, as a soldier goes to leave this world, he always has some regrets—he still wants one more smoke, one more drink, one more song..." His breathing is becoming more labored and I know he is weakening. "...and one more girl."
I give his hand a squeeze and rise.
"Dufour," I say. "Go to my knapsack and bring me the bottle that is in it."
While the boy scurries out to get it, I kneel down and reach into Bardot's jacket pocket, where I know he keeps his cigars and matches, take one, stick it between my lips and light it. Coughing, I slide it over Bardot's own lips. He clamps down on it with his teeth and takes a long, deep drag of it. "Ahhh...," he breathes, and slowly lets the smoke out.
Dufour runs back in, clutching the bottle. I take it from him and say, "Go back out and get the lads. I need them here. To say good-bye to our Captain Bardot."
Wide-eyed, he rushes back out to fetch the Clodhoppers, while I uncork the bottle, and put my arm under Bardot's shoulder to raise him up a bit so that he might drink from the opium-laced cognac that I hold to his lips.
He manages to get some down.
"Oh, that is good," he murmurs. I put the neck of the bottle once again to his mouth and lift it. He chokes, and some spills out over his chin, but some goes down his throat. This time, Bardot, drink as much as you want—it will ease your passage, my friend. It is not called Soldier's Joy for nothing. I suspect that similar potions are being poured down the necks of other sufferers here in this tent because the place grows quieter and quieter.
"That's enough, Bouvier, thank you," he says, and I let him sink back down. Even though he grows paler and paler, the drink seems to have restored him a bit.
He cuts his eyes to me and grins. "That's the smoke, and the drink, Bouvier. Can you provide the song ... and the girl?"
My men come in and group themselves about the cot. Sorry, Captain ... sorry, M'sieur...
Though I know their sentiments are sincere, I cut them short with, "Clodhoppers, form a screen about this cot and face outward, such that none can see in."
Some look mystified, but Laurent does not, and he directs the rest to do my bidding.
When I am looking at the backs of all of them, I start to sing to Bardot, very low, as I unbutton my jacket ... Plaisir d'amour, ne dure qu'un moment...
Pleasure of love,
Lasts but a moment long....
I open my jacket and begin to unlace the front of my undershirt.
"There is the song...," says Bardot, looking at me with all the intensity he can muster on his dying bed, "but where is the girl?"
I finish undoing my shirt, baring my breast, while continuing to sing ... Chagrin d'amour, dure toute la vie...
Pain of love,
Endures the whole life long.
"Ah," says Bardot, looking at me, his eyes glazed and amazed but still bright. "The girl at the tavern, with that boy..."
"Yes, Bardot, that same girl," I say.
He chuckles, shaking his head. "The last smoke, the last drink, the last song ... and now ... the last girl..."
I again lift him up and he looks at me and he smiles ... he even manages a grin. "It is so very, very good to know ... Bouvier...," he whispers, such that only I can hear, "...that God has a sense of humor."
I press his face to my chest, and he tries to lift his hand to touch my breast, but he is too weak and his hand sinks back down.
I hope that this cheers you on your way, Captain Bardot. You were a good friend when I needed one, and I love you for it.
I hold him there, tears streaming down my face, till I feel the life slip from him and then I lay him back down. With my two fingers, I bring his eyelids down to close his eyes for the last time, eyes that once had gazed fondly upon me, and upon this world.
Rising, I button up my jacket. The Clodhoppers still stand looking away. Good boys ... All except Dufour, who in his youthful innocence did not turn around, and who did not miss a thing. He stands astounded.