1786, Laon, Northern France
Father had been right about one thing: the army thought we were disposable. The Queen’s Dragoons were looked down upon, by the King’s Own Dragoons especially, but by everyone else as well. We were a light cavalry unit, and in wartime we did the dirty jobs: taking out snipers, defusing traps, holding bridges until the regular troops could come through, and so on. In peacetime they used us against smugglers, against highwaymen.
But no amount of scorn from other regiments could make me regret my choice. At least they wore it on their sleeve! I felt alive for the first time in years and I made the best friends, not least Jacques Piston, the man who’d pushed ahead of me in the queue.
There was a camaraderie between us Dragoons that I had never felt with the other spoilt gentlemen’s sons at the academy. We trained hard with our horses, and our guns. Louis Espagne called me “cowboy” after I galloped down after a band of smugglers, reins in my teeth, guns in both hands. I felt like that fourteen-year-old boy, galloping on the beach back home in Saint-Domingue, again.
Jacques had the measure of me. We were in an inn one evening, close to the barracks. I had rounded up a gang of salt smugglers and the wine was flowing.
“Our Dumas is a show-off!” he said, lifting his glass. “To Alex, the hero of the Dragoons!”
I did not argue. As I looked around at my new friends I thought they were more than simply mates or comrades. “To our new family!” I lifted my glass.
Louis cheered and filled the glasses again. “Another toast!” he said. “You think of one, Alex, you’re better at this lark.”
I stood up and thought a second, then raised my glass high. “All for one!” I said. “And one for all!” The inn resounded with all our cheers.
Suddenly the celebration stopped. A party of the King’s Own regiment, our sworn enemies, had entered by another door. They looked at us as if we were no more than the turd on their boots. One swept off his hat and put it down on the bar, and he sneered at us as he ordered his drink.
“I see the queen doesn’t care if Americans fight for her honour.”
Jacques stood up. “He isn’t American! He’s as French as the rest of us!”
No lie, but I felt a prickle in my throat. I sat still for a moment. The king’s men jeered.
“Can’t the gorilla speak? Or is his head as empty as any one of your queen’s men?”
I stood up, pushing the table away. “No one speaks to any one of us like that!”
The king’s man at the bar sneered. “You talk like a posh boy but you look like a gorilla! Do they duel in the trees?”
I glared at my tormentor. He was almost as tall as me, and strong about the shoulders. He might have been a boxer for all I knew, but I reckoned my years with the Chevalier had done me good.
“You can talk to my blade!” I spat the words.
“You? A swordsman?” he said. He looked at me with disgust. I longed to wipe that sneer off his face.
“Right here,” I said. “Now. Or are you afraid?” I took off my jacket. “If I am a gorilla, it will not take you long to dispatch me... sir.” I said the word like a curse, and his face flushed.
The innkeeper hustled us out into the road, and we chose our seconds and lined up. I took my regimental sword and weighed it in my hand. It was nothing like the fine flashy blades I had learned with at La Boissiere, and I realised as I held it that it had been a long time since I had practised anything like a formal duel. Maybe I had made a mistake. My second, Jacques, whispered to me, “Are you sure? It’s not too late to walk away...”
But I knew I couldn’t. I handed Jacques my hat and smiled with a confidence I wasn’t sure was mine, yet.
When I turned back, my enemy had his jacket off too. We faced each other, swords up. He was older than me, I reckoned, but not by much.
The shout came. “Fight!”
I let the sword guide me. He advanced and I parried, metal against metal. I looked into his hard grey eyes and thought of all the men who had ever wronged me, and I knew I could not let him win.
A crowd had gathered. I tried to shut out the sound. The king’s man lunged towards me, his blade cutting the air next to my cheek. I only ducked out of the way at the last minute. I parried again, thinking of what the Chevalier had told me: I must work three times as hard. I attacked, he knocked my sword away and I felt a sharp sting on my forehead. Then the smell, a tang of metal that I knew was blood. He was smiling now. He had cut me. I had to wipe the blood from my face.
I saw Jacques’ face, he looked afraid. I could not lose – not merely for myself, but for my comrades, my regiment. My brothers.
“We are not finished, sir!” I said, and put up my sword in readiness again.
The man sneered. “Do you want to die, American?”
I attacked, and he swatted me away. I gritted my teeth, tried to concentrate and remember my lessons. He came for me again, I parried – yes! Success – his blade turned away just in time. Then a twist of my wrist, a flick – my opponent’s sword clattered to the floor. I stepped back. The crowd cheered.
I put out a hand. But his face was a picture of rage and indignation.
“Beaten by an American and a Queen’s Dragoon,” I said. The cheer that went up from my comrades sent the King’s Own men scurrying back to their camp.
Or at least we thought it had.
We went back into the inn and called for more wine. But before we could open the bottle, there were two more challengers wanting to regain the honour of the King’s Own Dragoons. They called me American – and worse, much worse.
“Alex, forget it, you have nothing to prove. We know who you are.” Jacques poured me a drink and clasped my shoulder warmly. “One of us.”
I took the measure of these challengers, one taller than me, one shorter. I was full of the confidence of victory. I looked round at my comrades at the bar. Jacques was not lying; they would not care if I didn’t fight. But I did.
I stood up, and handed Jacques my hat and jacket. “Hold these. I bet you two sous I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I slept sounder that night than I ever had in my life. I needed the regiment sawbones to put a couple of stitches in the cut on my cheek, which I received in the last bout, but I won every fight. Now the whole regiment knew me. I was a mascot; a lucky charm. And I was as French as the rest of them.