Chapter 29

When Boney commanded his army to stand,
He leveled his cannons all over the land.
He leveled his cannons, his victory to gain,
And slew my Light Horseman on his way coming home.

I'm humming that cheerful little ditty as we clop along, heading for Boulogne where the Grand Army is massing before marching east across Flanders and then into the Rhineland.

It is good to be back in harness again, feeling fit and tight in my new gear and astride my fine horse on yet another superb day. I give her an affectionate pat on the back of her neck as we press on. She really is a good-looking bay filly, with white boots on each leg and a white blaze down the center of her forehead. Her mane is darker, almost black, and I don't think I could have found a finer mount.

One thing I regret is not getting more money out of Jardineaux before I left. I had spent most of my coin cache in outfitting myself, and in my haste to get out of Paris and escape the fate of being made laundress or worse, I had neglected to ask for more. I do have the money I got out of the pockets of those hapless policemen, but that is running out fast. Oh, well, I'll be seeing Jean-Paul sometime and I'll get more from him. After all, I do have to buy oats for Mathilde.

My last extravagance was the purchase of a fiddle and bow, and oilcloth to protect them against the weather. I, of course, have my pennywhistle, and should worse come to worse, I can always get back into female clothes and work a few taverns, of which there are plenty about—this is not the American wilderness. To save what money I have left, and to toughen myself up for what is to come, I sleep out in the open most nights. The weather has been generally kind and I do not often have to put up my tent or stay at an inn.

Last night I slept under some trees in an orchard. I gave Mathilde her oats in her nose bag, ate some bread with meat and cheese myself, and even had a little celebration with a small bottle of wine, for it was the second of October, eighteen hundred and six—my birthday, as it were. For the most part of my life, I had not known exactly when I was born, for it was part of the memories erased after the deaths of my parents and sister on That Black Day. I found out later from my grandfather, Reverend Alsop, when we met last year. He was astounded that I did not know that I was born in the small village of St. Edmund Standing-in-the-Moor in North Allerton, in the north of England, in the year 1790.... It was entered into the parish book, child, so I know. I was there...

I am now officially sixteen years old. Funny, I had always assumed that I was born in London. I take out my penny-whistle, play my "Ship's Boy's Lament," then curl up in a ball, offer up some prayers for various people, then go to sleep, with Mathilde standing quietly beside me.

***

As I get closer and closer to the grand encampment or bivouac, as the French would have it, I see more and more troops marching from all directions—Infantry, Fusiliers, Hussars, Grenadiers, Dragoons, Cuirassiers, Light Cavalry—there are soldiers everywhere, many pushing, pulling, or dragging what seems to be miles and miles of caissons bearing Napoléon's famous artillery. There are also supply wagons and camp followers and wagons full of laughing girls, and herds of cattle and sheep, and crates of chickens, ducks, and geese. And, I hate to say it, but there is a feeling of high excitement in the air, and it affects me, too.

I rise in the stirrups as I come over the last hill on the approach to Boulogne and see the encampment laid out before me and am astounded. There are hundreds, thousands, of little white tents laid out in neat rows. Soldiers parade, far away, shouted orders are heard, and trumpets are blown.

In the center of it all is a group of larger tents, and it is to that cluster of tents that I go.

There are some guards at the perimeter of this cluster of tents, but they do not hinder my passage. I spy a man at a table, an officer of the Guards, by the look of him, so I hop off Mathilde, and trailing her reins behind me, I walk up to him.

He wears small spectacles and is writing furiously in some journal.

"Pardon, Monsieur," I say, as I walk up to him and salute, my hand to the brim of my shako. "But I am Cadet Jacques Bouvier, American, of the Massachusetts Militia, Third Brigade, here to volunteer as a galloper, Sir." I had thought about giving myself the stripes of a corporal or even a private because of my very obvious youth, but then I could not have gotten into the Officers' Mess and that's where the valuable information will be found.

His weary eyes look up at me from over the top of his glasses. "American, eh? An' what in hell are you doing here?"

"I am here to help repay the debt that the United States owes to France, Sir! Vive Lafayette! Vive l'Empereur! Vive la France!"

"You have papers, boy?"

"Yes, Sir." I pass them over. I did stay one rainy day at a cozy inn for the express purpose of making up these forgeries at a convenient dry table. With my pen and brushes and colors and sealing wax I worked up an account of my time at the West Point Military Academy—I earned High Honors, of course—as well as a letter of introduction from a Colonel Randall Trevelyne, Third Militia. I think he would be pleased with the promotion. The whole thing is not as good as Higgins would have done, but it gets by.

"You come all the way here to fight for France?"

"There is little chance for military advancement in America right now, and that is what I seek. That and glory."

He looks at me doubtfully. "Have you had your first shave yet, Cadet?" There are several other scribes by his side, and this gets a laugh from them.

I decide to bristle at that. "I did not come here to be insulted, Sir. If you will give me the satisfaction of..."

"Oh, be quiet, boy," he grumbles, shuffling through some papers. "Yes, the Sixteenth Fusiliers could use a messenger. Theirs fell off his horse last week and broke his damned neck. You shall be attached to them. Report to General Charpentier. You will find him over there—the big tent at the end of that row. Now go away."

I give a short bow and say, "Thank you, Suh!" putting a bit of American Virginia accent into it. I mean, why not lay it on, for what do they know about America?

I get back on Mathilde, for I know I will want to make a show of horsemanship before my new commanding officer. I trot down to the designated tent, where several officers are standing about, talking and smoking cigars.

I ride up, wheel Mathilde around, and dismount, bowing low to the one I perceive to be the most senior officer. It occurs to me then that perhaps I was a bit hasty in arriving like that, as the dust from Mathilde's hooves settles over all who stand there.

Well, too late now, I figure, as I salute and report, "Cadet Jacques Bouvier, Massachusetts Militia, Third Brigade, newly assigned to your unit, Sir, as messenger!"

"I commend you for your promised service, boy," says General Charpentier, brushing at the sleeves of his deep blue coat. "But I do not thank you for the dust." He is a portly man, with whiskers, but his eye is sharp and keen, and it is trained on me.

"I am sorry, Sir, but—"

"Do not be sorry, Cadet," he says. "After all, it is war. We must all get dirty." He puts his hands behind him and walks around me. "So. We have been blessed with an American Cadet, then? We do not even have such a rank in the Grande Armée de la République. What shall you be, then? A private? A corporal? Surely not a sergeant, for your cheeks are too downy, like the soft belly of a goose."

I feel my cheeks flaming. "I will be whatever you want me to be, General Charpentier."

He considers me and then glances off to his right and says, "We shall see what you shall be. A messenger, for sure, but right this moment we have not the need for such. Look over there. Do you see that?"

I look over and see what seems to be a confused bunch of men and young boys. It is a squad of sorts, about a dozen men, and it looks like they have just been issued their uniforms, as they are ill fitted and look a mess.

"Yes, Sir, I see," I say.

"Do you know how to drill, Cadet Bouvier of the United States Militia?" asks the General. He flicks the ash off the end of his cigar such that it lands on my boot. "Do you know your right flank from your left? Forward March from Advance Columns to the Right? Do you know how to load and fire a musket? Do you?"

Again I answer, "I did not come here to be insulted, Sir!"

"Very well," replies General Charpentier. He points the wet and well-chewed end of his cigar at the group of men. "They are a gaggle of farm boys and shopkeepers newly arrived to fight for the glory of France. They are nothing but cannon fodder, and they are yours, Cadet Jacques Bouvier. Do what you can with them, and then we will see what you will be in this Army."

I take Mathilde over to a watering trough and let her drink her fill, tie her to a hitching post, and walk over to what I know, for better or worse, will be my men. Time to get started.

"Who is in charge here?" I ask, as I come upon them. Some of them sit on the ground, some wrestle with their gear, and some just stand there, looking around in awe at what is happening all about them.

A little round man, half bald with large round pop eyes, says, "I am Sergeant Gaston Boule. I raised this gallant band of warriors from our province of Burgundy to fight for Napoléon and for France!"

I notice that his uniform does not have any sergeant's stripes upon it.

"And I am Cadet Bouvier, and I am your new commanding officer. From now on, when I arrive in your presence, you will leap to your feet and stand at Attention. Is that understood?"

"But it is just a boy," says a tall young man with lanky brown hair hanging about his shoulders. "How—"

"Get to your feet now!" I shout, and whip out my sword and with its point, draw a line in the dirt. "Line up on that, you ignorant pack of yokels!"

The shambling pack manages to do it, but just barely.

"All of you are a disgrace. You there, trade jackets with that one. You! Do your shoes fit? Non? Then how the hell do you expect to march two hundred miles? Do you think we shall stop to massage your poor feet? No, what we will do is put you up against a tree and shoot your sorry ass for malingering, that's what we will do, count on it!"

I pause for breath. "What a pathetic gang of clowns ... To think I came all the way from America to command such rabble as this. Maggots! Scum! You, trade shakos with him! Don't you think it might be good if you actually could see to fire at the enemy rather than looking at the inside of your hat? The Prussian will certainly be able to see your stupid head in his sights! You, lace up your gaiters; you, pull up your goddamned pants! Try to look like a soldier! Try to look like a man! Damn it!"

They start trading parts of their uniforms and in a while they look halfway presentable. But just halfway. Night is about to fall and we'll get on with the rest of it tomorrow.

"Who's the youngest one here?"

"I am, Sir," pipes up a small voice belonging to a very tiny boy. "My name is Denis Dufour. I was going to be the drummer. See, I have a drum."

"Well, at least one of you came prepared," I growl. "Denis, you shall be my orderly. Unsaddle my horse, brush her down, and see that she is fed and cared for. Set up my tent right there, and the rest of you pitch your tents in a line in that direction. A straight line if you can manage it, and all facing the same way, for the love of God! Now get to it. Tomorrow we shall drill till you drop!"

"Uh, Sir," says my Sergeant Boule with a slight cough. "We do not have any tents."

Oh, Lord!