Viva Jacquelina! (6 page)

“Yes, Jacky, I will be careful, I promise.”

“No charging windmills, my sweet lord?”

“Ah, not me, my pretty little miss. My duty and nothing more,” he says, putting a light kiss on my brow and chuckling deep in his throat. “But as for charging windmills, I well recall the eight-gun
Nancy B. Alsop
charging into battle against the eighty-four-gun behemoth
San Cristobal
back there on the Caribbean Sea. Do you recall that as well, Captain Miss Faber? Hmmm?”

“That was different, Captain Lord Allen, that was—”

“No, it wasn't. It was foolhardy and crazy and you damn well know it. But you did it, anyway. Now, alas, we must get back. My men have probably all deserted by now. Here, let's get you squared away.”

I had shoved my wig back on my head and it sat there all askew, its locks falling about my streaming eyes.

“There,” he says, straightening my hairpiece and placing my shako upon it. “All Shipshape and Bristol Fashion. And let's kiss those tears away.”

“I know I'm a bit of a mess,” I say, beginning to blubber. “Why do you bother with me, Richard?”

He laughs. “Because I love you, Jacky. You are the light of my life. Now, you stay at headquarters and out of trouble, you hear me? You're in this, too, and given your past behavior, well . . .”

I put my arms around him and my tears are kissed away.

I love you, too, Richard. One last kiss, Richard, one last one, oh please . 
.
 .

And then we turn and head back to our duty.

 

As I mount up and return to headquarters, all disconsolate and full of grim foreboding, an old Irish song taught to me by Mairead McConnaughey comes unbidden into my head.

 

I know where I'm going,
And I know who's going with me
I know who I love,
But the Lord knows who I'll marry...

Deep in the dark of the night I hear a distant rumble of artillery. I cringe and burrow further down into the covers and pull the pillow over my head. It does not shut out the sound.

In the military there is a term called “four o'clock courage.” It means that, while it is easy to feel brave and hopeful on the eve of battle, when you are eating and drinking with your friends in the glow of a warm fire and good fellowship, things tend to look a lot different in the cold light of the pre-dawn when, alone and fearful, you must climb out of a warm and safe bed to confront what is sure to come. The soldier who can do that and not quiver and shake is said to possess “four o'clock courage.”

That is all very well. However, I, Jacky Faber, do not have that kind of courage, and never have. In fact, I have very little of any kind of courage at all.

I burrow deeper, but—heavy sigh—I throw off the covers and get up to dress and face the coming day, the butterflies in my cowardly belly in full flight.

Shivering, I climb into my Royal Navy gear, which Higgins had laid out for me the night before. If grim Death does find me today, I prefer to go off with him in Navy blue. I do not bother with the wig. What good would it do me today? My own hair will have to serve whether I end up at the Pearly Gates or at the Gates of Hell.

At least I won't be buried at sea,
I think as I pull on my boots.
That's some consolation.

With sword rattling at side, shako somewhat askew on head, I go next door to tap on Higgins's door. He is, of course, already up and has procured from somewhere some good hot coffee and small sweet cakes, which do much to restore my spirits. In the soft light of a lantern, we share a battlefield breakfast.

“You will go to be with Mr. Scovell?”

“Yes, I think that would be the best place for me. The man is absolutely amazing in his ability to crack enemy codes. He has given me a relatively simple message to try to break, and I believe I just about have it.”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small leather-bound notebook and shows me some meaningless figures written thereupon. Under them are some words in French, undoubtedly parts of the deciphered message.

“Dear Higgins,” I say, with a fond smile on my face and a hand on his shoulder. “Verily, it is just the place for you and your fine mind.”

“And you, Miss?” he asks, returning the notebook to his vest pocket. “I advise caution, and I hope this time that advice will not be in vain.”

“Don't worry, Higgins. Remember, you are talking to Jacky Faber, Committed Coward. I shall be all right. I will go to headquarters with you and stand by Wellesley's side, whether he wants me there or not. It is, after all, where my orders directed me to be, and where I should be safe. Generals seldom die in battle, and neither do their aides-de-camp.”

“Well, that is to be hoped,” says Higgins, a bit doubtfully. “Shall we go, Miss?”

“Yes, Higgins, lead on.”

We exit our wing of what I have come to call the Hotel Vimeiro, and I go to the stable to collect my mount, whom I have named Isabella, she being a pretty little thing, while Higgins goes off to join Mr. Scovell.

I lead my little mare around to the front of the building and find that Wellesley has moved his campaign outdoors. There is a slight rise of ground that gives a fine view of the battleground.

I tie Isabella to a rail that is already lined with horses and walk over to the center of activity, in the middle of which is, of course, General Sir Arthur Wellesley.

Dawn is beginning to pink up the eastern horizon, and that is the direction from which the French will come. There is a road leading between two low ridges to here.

And there they are, all in red, white, and blue . 
.
 .

The sun is even higher now, and we can see the advancing French columns surging right up the road leading to the town. There's certainly nothing very subtle about the direction of their march over the plain. They are heading directly for us and mean to overpower our poor lads with their overwhelming might.

Oh, Lord . 
.
 .

“I see you are being English today, Miss Faber,” growls the General upon seeing me. “What are you doing here?”

I bring heels together, put hand to brim, and snap off a salute. “I was messenger to Bonaparte, and I shall be messenger to you, Sir, as well.”

“
Harrumph.
Well, stay out of the way, girl.”

I give a slight bow, more of a nod, really, and step back to stand with a group of red-coated junior officers—plainly messengers, I surmise, and I find out I am right when one of them is called to the big table, given a paper, and sent off to the north. Undoubtedly to Anstruther's Seventh Brigade, which lies over the hills in that direction.

My fellow messengers eye me curiously, but I am certainly used to that. Excitement is high, but one of them who steps from the throng manages to ask, “Are you really Jacky Faber? It's said around camp that you are, indeed, she.”

I give him the Lawson Peabody Look—eyelids at half mast beneath the brim of my shako, lips together, teeth apart—and say, “That's
Lieutenant
Jacky Faber, Ensign, and yes, I suppose I am.”

“My word,” he says, visibly impressed. “Jacky Faber standing right here. Imagine that.”

There are none of the regular brigade commanders here, all eight of them—Crawfurd, Anstruther, Acland, Fane, Ferguson, Nightingall, Bowes, and Hill—are off with their troops. There are, however, two generals in our midst whom I had not seen before. Curious, that . . . arriving on the scene so close to the start of the battle.

“Imagine what you will, lad, but who are those two?” I ask of my new admirer, nodding in the direction of the two brass hats.

“Generals Burrard and Dalrymple, newly arrived from home.” He leans into me and whispers, “From what I hear, I don't think Old Nosey is at all pleased.”

“Hmmm . . . ‘Many cooks spoil the stew' comes to mind.”

“Indeed, that is the supposition. Ahem . . . Would you mind, Lieutenant, if I were to touch your arm?”

“Wot?”

“It would mean a lot to me, Miss,” he stammers, “if I could tell all and sundry that I touched the arm of the one who rubbed shoulders with Napoleon himself.”

I cut him a sharp look. “Where did you hear about that?”

“That new book,
My Bonny Light Horseman,
came out just before we left England. It was in all the bookshops. I enjoyed it hugely,” he says, blushing prettily. “Especially the part where you—”

“Never mind that,” I say, working up a bit of a blush myself, as I can well imagine to what part—or parts—he is referring.
Geez, Amy, did you leave nothing out?

I give him a quick look-over. He is a very pleasant- looking lad, seventeen if he's a day, and probably anticipating his first real shave.

“You know my name, soldier,” I say. “What's yours?”

“Connell, Miss. T-T-Timothy Connell,” he says, stut-tering.

“Well, Ensign Timothy Connell, you may tell all and sundry about
this . 
.
 .”
And I lean over and plant a kiss on his downy cheek.

The blush triples in intensity.

“Oh, Miss!” he exults, the upcoming battle apparently forgotten in the magic of the moment. He puts hand to recently kissed cheek and dons a faraway look. “That will be a story to tell!”

Boys, I swear . 
.
 .

Just then the very irregular Commander Montoya rides up, followed by several of his similarly irregular troops—all of them dressed in ragged dark clothing with bandoleers crossed over their chests, black broad-brimmed hats on their heads. He dismounts, tosses the reins to an orderly, and strides over to the big table. He hands a packet of papers to Wellesley's spymaster Scovell. He and Higgins snatch them up avidly and begin referring to code sheets and scribbling.

Must be nice to be able to read the enemy's dispatches at a time like this,
I'm thinking. I'm also reflecting on the former bearers of those messages, French couriers who are now probably lying dead in dusty ditches along lonely roads not far from here. My sympathies extend to those fallen messengers, for I myself was very recently a French courier and had many friends in that close-knit corps of riders.
C'est la guerre, mes amis.

I turn again to watch the French advance up the road. Their artillery continues to pound, and puffs of shot and shell hit near our village. I look to the south and see the steeple of the local church, thinking it is probably making a fine target for the French gunners.

Sure enough, there is a high whistling sound and then a thud as a ball hits a building next to us, crumbling a wall. My traitorous knees start in to quivering. I hope no one notices.

As fine dust from the collapse of that building rains down upon us, the French columns come relentlessly on, and then the fog of war sets in for real . . .

 

“He's trying to turn our left flank!” shouts Wellesley, squinting through the dust.
“Signal to Acland and Bowes! Stop them!”

From what I can see, Anstruther's brigade has just come out of hiding and is attacking the French columns in long lines of two rifles deep. Men, in all their military finery, are beginning to fall on both sides, lying like little tin soldiers on the ground. But they are not toys, no, they are not. They are poor boys who were once living and breathing young men, and now, in a flash, in a single horrible instant, they are not—they neither live nor breathe but rather lie still on the ground that they will soon be part of.

Good God, the slaughter is on!

The ranks of my fellow messengers are thinning, as each is called up to fly off with a message to one of the field commanders. As Ensign Connell mounts up, I give him a salute and a pat on his leg.

“Go, Tim, and Godspeed!”

He wheels and is gone.

There are signal men posted on the nearby roof, waving flags in prearranged patterns to transfer orders to those brigades that can see them.

“General Junot is sending brigades along the ridgeline to attack the village! There is a column attempting to enter the village on the left!” shouts an officer on the roof, a long glass to his eye.

“Contact Fane! Tell him of the situation and get men into the houses to defend the town! Goddammit to hell! Do it!” yells Wellesley.

Another messenger rides off and I see that I am the last one left, and will be so till one of the others returns from his mission. None such reappears, not yet, anyway.

Wellesley stands at the table, hands clenched behind him, looking out over the battle, his teeth clenched as well.

“Messenger!” he roars. “Get down to Colonel Robbe and tell him I want his dragoons up here
NOW!
”

He looks up and sees that the messenger is me. I get up on Isabella and reach down for the order.

“Good God, you again? Christ, what a war . . .” He looks about for a more suitable male messenger but finds none. “Well, just go on and do it, for God's sake! And don't fail, girl!”

I take the paper, cast him a level glance, wheel, and I am gone.

 

“Bernier is attacking the town!” I shout as I see Richard Allen riding toward me at the head of his troops, looking more stern and resolute than I have ever seen him. “Wellesley wants you up there!” He pulls up, as do I, and I hand him the message. He reads it, then stuffs it into the front of his jacket.

“We already know that. All right, lads, let's go,” he says, putting spurs to his horse. I see Sergeant Bailey and Private Archie MacDuff behind him, and Tommy Patton, Seamus McMann, too.

“Richard, I—”

“Jacky, you must go back to headquarters. Now!”

“But, Richard—”

“But nothing. Go back where you can do some good. The fighting in the town will be hand-to-hand, as nasty and dirty as it gets! It always is. And you are no good at that sort of thing! Now, go!”