"You see, Bouvier," Captain Pierre Bardot says, pointing out over the multitude, "this formation, being essentially a square, gives the Emperor the ability to attack in any direction, merely by ordering simple flanking maneuvers." Bar-dot trots by my side, pointing out things he finds are of military interest. He has taken a bit of a shine to me, it seems, and I have become his protégé. This is good for me, since, under his unofficial protection, I do not have to endure insults and issue any more ridiculous challenges to duels—duels I would most surely lose if it came down to it. "And, since the length and the depth of the Army is only a two-day march, the Emperor 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 have to nod in agreement. At times, when we top yet another hill and I can look out over everything and see that mass of disciplined men spread before me, I think that I would not want to face it. Again, I ponder what would have happened had Nelson and the British Navy not won at Trafalgar.
"When do you think we shall meet the Prussians, Sir?" I ask.
He rolls his ever-present cigar to the other side of his mouth and considers. "Well, today is the tenth. We begin to cross the River Saale tomorrow, which means we'll probably meet them on the thirteenth or fourteenth. I gather from General Charpentier that the Emperor's overall plan is to get between the Prussian Army and Berlin, thereby forcing them to fight where he wants them to fight—in the open, on the plateau around Jena." He chuckles and claps me on the back. "Whatever, lad, it's sure to be hot work and glory enough to go around."
Well. That is some information I must get to Jean-Paul. Don't know what good it will do, since it seems to be general knowledge if a mere captain knows of the plan, but it's some-thing ... and I don't really know if I want it to do any good ... or any bad. As usual, I don't know nothin.
"Well, we all want that, don't we, Sir? Honor and glory and all?"
He snorts and pitches away the stub of his cigar. "But of course. Honor and glory, to be sure," he says, and I look into his eyes and I know that he is thinking of what he has seen in the way of war—the mud, the filth, the hunger, the burning towns, the ravaged women, the murdered children, the battles where men fall rank upon rank before the merciless cannons like wheat before a scythe, and, finally, after it's all over and the butcher's bill is added up, the sickening sweet stink of the honored dead as their bodies lie rotting on the battlefield. "Mais oui," he says with a certain weariness, as he pulls out yet another cigar and clamps it in his jaw. "Thank God we French invented matches, eh, Bouvier?" he says, striking one on the pommel of his saddle and firing up his cheroot. "Proves we're good for more than just making war, non?"
I like him. We have visited a few taverns together on our way to this place, and I found his company welcome. He fancies himself quite the hand with the ladies and has gone off with more than one on this journey. He even offered to buy me a girl once, in a tavern two days back, but I begged off, citing my youth and shyness. He reminds me a bit of a certain Captain Lord Richard Allen, of recent acquaintance—'cept he's about five years older, dark where Allen was fair, and is about half a foot taller and twenty pounds heavier, and much more cynical. Maybe it's those awful cigars ... no, I think it's all in his attitude toward the military, his superior officers, and life in general that brings Richard Allen to mind.
And where are you now, my bold Captain Allen? Hmmm? Well, wherever it is, I'm glad you're well out of this one, 'cause I know it ain't gonna be pretty.
"By the way, Jacques," Bardot says, offhandedly, "do you know you are not the only American volunteer here? Non? Yes, there are several others. Most from the South of your country, but one other from the North. I met him at a staff meeting yesterday, but I cannot recall his name."
Damn! Just what I need! Some other American to blow my cover!
"...and he did not know your name when I mentioned it."
"It is a big country, M'sieur," I say with a certain amount of dread.
"Ah, yes. But no matter. Here comes Depardieu with something obviously on his mind."
Lieutenant Depardieu comes pounding down the road and pulls up next to us.
"Bouvier! The General wants you! Right now!"
"Aye, Sir!" I say, glad that he did not see me sleeping earlier. I put the heels to Mathilde, wave good-bye to Pierre, and gallop off.
***
"Lieutenant Bouvier. You are to ride forward to see how the pontonniers are proceeding with the bridge over the Saale. Take their report and then deliver it to the Emperor's camp," orders General Charpentier.
My jaw drops open.
L'Empereur!
"Yes, Bouvier, the Emperor. Things are heating up, messengers become scarce, and it is possible you will not return to us for a while." The General hands me my detachment orders, and I tuck them in my pouch. Without them I could be shot as a deserter if found away from my unit. "Take some Fusiliers with you for protection, as you will be exposed, out in front of the army. Watch for skirmishers, as there are always plenty of rascals who lurk at the edge of an army looking for easy prey."
"Thank you, Sir. I shall be careful. Thank you for your concern and thank you for your kindness to me. I will take four of my unit with me. Laurent, Michaud, Guerrette, and Vedel." All former poachers, long of leg, and excellent marksmen.
The General nods to his aide-de-camp, who writes out the detachment chits for my men and then regards me with an appraising eye. "In the short time you have been here, Bouvier, you have made something of a reputation for yourself. You are a swift messenger, but there are swifter. You are a good officer, but there are better. I don't know what it is, but there is something about you that makes you very easy to like." He shakes these thoughts out of his head and looks away. "Good luck to you. That is all."
I salute and then go to collect my men. My drummer boy, Dufour, gives me the big eyes and begs to be taken along, so I let him come. After all, he is my orderly; he knows his duty. He is also a boy who seeks adventure, and I can understand that. Within a half hour we are off, me on Mathilde, and the five of them loping easily alongside, the poachers' muskets at Trail Arms, and all eyes alert to danger.
And danger there proves to be.
Chapter 34
Yancy Beauregard Cantrell, River Gambler Extraordinaire, once told me as we floated down the Mississippi, "Miss Faber, if you ever want to lose your money, attend a twenty-five-mile race where a man on foot is pitted against a good horse, and bet on the horse. The man, if he is a runner in good condition, will win every time."
When I expressed disbelief at this, he said, "No, it's true—I've seen it done. The man won by a mile. You see, the horse is good for short bursts of speed, but the man has the endurance. Plus, the horse has to carry his rider, while the man has only himself to propel along. The man will win a twenty-five-yard race as well, for he is quicker off the line. As always, Jacky, you beware of betting on what looks like a sure thing."
I have always tried to take that advice to heart, but sometimes I fail.
My long-legged poachers, two on each side of me, keep up the quick-march pace as we close the distance to the river, and at last we see the Saale gleaming down below us. It's been a brisk twelve-mile hike and Mathilde is puffing like a bellows, and my Clodhoppers are a bit winded as well.
"There it is, lads," I say, pointing to the encampment below. The place is abuzz with activity—wagons are bringing in loads of fresh-cut logs, and men are in the water placing them upright and lashing them down to form X's on which to place the planks that will support the heavy cavalry and troops and even heavier artillery cannons. They seem to be about halfway across. There is a large tent set up in the middle of it all, and that is sure to be the command post of Colonel Maurais, Chief of Engineers.
As we go down into the river valley, I turn to Laurent. "That looks like a mess tent. Go there and see that you all get something to eat. Make sure you get a plate for Dufour, too. Dufour, stay by me." My orderly and sometime drummer boy looks up at me. "When I dismount, take my mare and walk her till she cools, and then get her to a trough for some water. Not too much, though..."
"I know horses, M'sieur," asserts Denis Dufour. "I'm a Clodhopper, a farm boy, remember?"
"Good. Then get her some oats if you can find some, and afterward rejoin your comrades for some food of your own."
In a few minutes we reach the camp, where we are challenged, so I give today's password, which is Victoire, so we are allowed through the lines and I dismount in front of the big tent and hand the reins to my boy. "Have her back here as soon as you can." My Special Poachers Division of Bouvier's Own Clodhoppers has already gone off toward the steaming mess tent, and I don't blame them, as my own belly is setting up a fierce growl. As Denis leads Mathilde away, I give her a pat on her flank, then I go up to the tent to present myself.
The guard outside the tent looks me over and lets me in. I take off my shako, tuck it under my arm, and duck down under the flap and look about. There is yet another table with men about it, but instead of studying maps, they are looking at drawings of bridges, fortifications, and other structures. Many have mud on their boots, and one officer is wet to his waist. These men are Napoléon's fabled engineers, men who have made it possible for him to get his army where he wanted it to go.
A grizzled old man in the uniform of a colonel looks up as I enter, and I bow to him. "Who are you and what do you want, boy?" he asks, irritation plain in his voice. am Lieutenant Jacques Bouvier, Messenger of the Sixteenth Fusiliers. Compliments of General Charpentier, Sir," I manage to get out without too much stumbling. "He wanted me to convey a report of your progress to l'Empereur ... Sir."
"He did, did he?" grumbles the Colonel. "Huh! Well, we'll see." He looks me up and down. "You certainly look the part of a damned jockey. Skinny enough, for sure. Take yourself off and come back in half an hour and we will have dispatches for you."
He turns back to his assistants so I bow again and exit the tent, fuming. Skinny, am I? If you only knew, Sir.
I go in the direction of the mess tent and notice my orderly emerging with two mess kits in his hand. Mathilde is tethered nearby in a little grassy meadow, contentedly munching on some grass. My men are sitting there about her, cross-legged on the ground, their guns across their laps, eating their own food with great gusto.
"Here, Sir," says Dufour, "I brought you a plate."
"Thank you, Denis, you are a good boy," I say. "Sit down and have yours. I'll be right back."
My throat is dry, but I had noticed a wagon nearby that was selling wine and spirits, so I stride over to it. Camp followers do prosper in a war, I'm thinkin' as I dig in my pocket and pay twice the going price for three bottles of cheap country wine.
I take them back and sit down amongst my men. I uncork a bottle and lift it to my lips. Ahhh... Then I pass it to Guerrette, who sits on my right.