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.
"Bless you, Sir," says he, taking the bottle and drinking from it.
"Bless us all, Guerrette," I say, uncorking the next bottle and handing it to Laurent on my left.
We sit in a companionable circle on the green grass, chewing our bread and sausage and cheese as we pass the bottles around. The sun is not out and there is a heavy mist from the river, but still it is warm and we feel, for the moment, content, and that is all a poor soldier can ever hope for.
After a while, a man comes out of the Colonel's tent and signals to me. I get up.
"Get ready, lads, I think we're moving out." They groan and rise and shoulder their muskets and stand ready while I go down to see the Chief of Engineers.
"All right, Bouvier," says Colonel Maurais upon my entrance into his tent. His adjunct, a lieutenant splattered with mud, hands me two folded letters, one sealed with red wax, one sealed with blue. I take them and put them in my pouch.
"The blue one goes to the Emperor, with my compliments. And, since you will be riding through Marshal Murat's Cavalry Line on your way back, it will be no trouble for you to deliver the red one to him. I am sure he will be glad to know that we will be ready since he will be the first one over my bridge in the morning. Ride hard, young man."
I hit a brace, click my heels, bow, and leave.
We push on back toward our lines, hoping to reach them before dark. Things are going well—the men, rested and fed, are moving along at a steady pace, as is Mathilde. Denis did manage to find her some oats. I look forward to getting in my tent and going to sleep.
On our way we cross a field, and then come upon a road. The traveling there is easier, and I welcome it, but Laurent has other thoughts.
"We are too exposed here, Sir," he says, his eyes darting about, peering at the thick forest that lines either side of the road. "We could be ambushed. I don't like it. It's the poacher in me, Sir. Never let yourself be taken in the open,
non.
"
I think on that but decide to stay on the road. "We will be back all the quicker, Corporal Laurent, and we have seen no sign of Prussians on our journey so far. I think they have all retreated north to get ready for the big battle. It will be all right, you'll see."
Laurent grunts in assent, but he does not look convinced. He directs Guerrette, Michaud, and Vedel to patrol out close to the encroaching woods.
As I ride along, my thoughts turn to Jaimy, and I pray once again for his recovery.
Did it go well, Jaimy? Are you back on your feet again? Did you—
That's as far as I get on that line of thought.
"
ANGRIFF! ERGREIFT SIE!
"
A patrol of Prussian heavy cavalry bursts from the cover of the woods, helmets gleaming, sabers drawn and raised.
"
Run, boys! Run!
" I scream, as I wheel Mathilde about and try to flee. I draw my pistol to aim at the man charging at me, not ten yards away. I cock and fire, but Mathilde, startled by the sudden attack, rears back and my shot goes wide, merely nicking him on the side of his metal breastplate.
Damn!
I hear shots from my men, and from the edge of my vision, I think I see one of the Prussians slump forward in his saddle.
The man comes relentlessly on. I can see his clenched teeth, and I know he means to kill me and to smile as he does it. In terror, I drop the pistol and reach for my sword, but I have my hand only on its hilt as he raises his saber and starts the swing of the killing slash. Just then his leader riding by his side points his sword at me and shouts, "
Halt, Günther! Den Offizier nehmen wir lebendig!
"
The one named Günther changes his swing in midair, and instead of cutting my throat, slams down the heavy hilt of his sword on the side of my head. As my shako falls into the dirt and I slump forward against Mathilde's neck, my one thought is that they mean to take me alive. Dimly, I hear my men still shooting, and then the Prussian leader shouting, "
Verschwinden wir! Schnell! Schnell!
"
Then I don't know nothin' for a while.
***
When my senses return, I find my hands are bound behind my back and my head is throbbing like someone had slammed it with a sledgehammer. Indeed, someone had—that Günther has an arm powerful as the leg of an ox. I sit up on Mathilde, shake my head, and look about. There are only about eight of them—a small band of skirmishers out to make trouble on the flanks of the Grand Army ... and pick up what intelligence they can,
and, oh they have picked up some here, no doubt,
I think with growing dread, knowing what is in my messenger's pouch.
We pull up before a farmhouse where all dismount and I am pushed off Mathilde. I land on my back on the ground below and my breath is knocked out of me. I groan and try not to cry out in my pain and misery, but it is hard,
so hard.
I am picked up and shoved in the doorway, where I trip over the sill and end up sprawled on the floor. I am quickly taken up by Günther and plunked in a chair that sits in front of a table. The officer in charge of the patrol stands at rigid attention next to me. On the table are spread maps, with words and arrows and numbers scribbled on them. An officer, with shaved head and gold on his shoulders, is seated there, and behind him is hung a flag—white with a black double-headed eagle on it, its talons clutching a brace of lightning bolts.
The man, who wears what I take to be the insignia of a major, glances up from the desk and looks at the officer with raised eyebrow.
"
Ein Französischer Kurrier, Major Papen. Er hat Papiere bei sich!
" the junior officer announces, putting my pouch on the table before his superior.
"
Gute Arbeit, Leutnant Grasser,
" acknowledges the higher officer, plainly complimenting the junior man on his catch. He cracks open the letters and reads their contents.
"So," he asks me in French. "The bridge across the Saale is almost done, eh? Well, it is possible we might be able to concentrate some forces there to prevent the crossing of the Grand Army. What do you think of that?"
"I am only a poor messenger, M'sieur," I say. "They give me letters and I deliver them. That is all I do. I do not think of anything else. And I do not know of anything else." I hang my head at this, and try to look contrite.
Major Papen tosses the letters back on the table and says, "
Leutnant Grasser. Schaffen Sie ihn raus hier. Erschiessen Sie de Mann.
" Günther, upon hearing this, puts his hand under my arm and lifts me up.
I don't understand the lingo, but to my horror, I think I get the gist of what he has just said—
Dear God, that sounds an awful lot like—
"Take me out and shoot me, Sir? But you cannot.
Je suis un soldat,
a soldier, just like you, and I must be treated as such! I am not a spy! You cannot—"
"You have here in your pouch letters concerning dispositions of bridgework across one of the rivers of the Fatherland. How could you not be more of a spy? No, you shall be shot," he says, getting to his feet, pulling a pistol from his belt and cocking it. "And I shall personally administer the
coup de grâce
"
He nods to Günther and I am dragged out into the farmyard and stood up in the center of it.
The firing squad forms—four of them, standing in a line in front of me, preparing their muskets.
Oh, Lord, not here, not now...
Major Papen comes out of the farmhouse, his cocked pistol by his side.
"
Soldaten! Anwesende waffen!
" He shouts the order and four muskets are raised and pointed at my chest.
The Look. Mistress would expect me to put on the Look. I'll try, Mistress, I'll try ...
I lift my chin and bring my eyelids down to half-mast, lips together, teeth apart.
Jaimy, I...
"
Abfeuern!
" barks Papen.
CRRAACCKK!
Four muskets ire and I pitch forward into the dust. As I taste the dirt, a part of my numb mind wonders why I wasn't thrown back by the blast of the bullets, instead of forward. I look up and see that it was not my own breast that was shattered by that volley, but Major Papen's own head. He falls, half his face gone, his pistol by his side.
CLODHOPPERS!
is the shout. Günther goes down along with several others. Then Lieutenant Grasser, clutching his neck where a bullet has penetrated his throat, kneels there choking on his own blood. Laurent lopes through the barnyard, and with his bayonet puts an end to Grasser's troubles.
I feel something at my wrists and they quickly fall free and I put my hands on the earth and push myself to my knees.
"Your shako, Sir." It is Denis Dufour, holding it out to me. Seeing me still confused, he puts a hand under my arm and pulls me to my feet. Still addled, I shove the hat on my head and yank the strap under my chin. "How could you have been so brave, Sir? Standing there like that with your head up and that look on your face..."
Brave? What...
"We've got to get out of here, M'sieur, they might be back at any time!" shouts Laurent, reloading.
My head clears. "My letters. I must get my letters. Dufour, see if you can find my horse. Corporal, keep a sharp watch. Vedel, Guerrette, see if that officer has any papers on him ... money, too. Check the others, also. Michaud, come with me." Stooping, I pick up the pistol that lies by Papen's dead hand and look down at his body—
so you would put a bullet in my brain with this?
Michaud and I go into the farmhouse.