Viva Jacquelina! (3 page)

It is a large room, and at the far end is a long table at which are seated a number of men. In the center of them is a man who, given the deference shown him by the others, must be Sir Arthur Wellesley.

We advance to the table. General Wellesley, not waiting for explanation, asks with a certain amount of irritation in his voice, “And what is this, then?”

Richard Allen steps forward, bows, and says, “General Wellesley, I am Captain Lord Allen, Twentieth Light Dragoons, at your service, Sir. May I present Miss J. M. Faber? She has been sent from Naval Intelligence to aid you in the way of Spanish, French, and Portuguese language translations. Miss Faber, General Sir Arthur Wellesley.”

I curtsy, but he does not bow—nor does he rise from his chair.

Wellesley's cold gray eyes travel over the both of us. Then he looks down what does prove to be a very long, thin nose and speaks.

“From Intelligence, eh? Sent to spy upon me, no doubt. How jolly.”

Richard was right. This man does not mince words, and he does not seem very jolly when he says that. In fact, I suspect the man is seldom jolly.

“I am very pleased to meet you, Sir,” I say, all respectful. “But spying on my fellow countrymen is not my field of endeavor, Sir, nor is it part of my orders.” It is, of course,
exactly
why I was sent here. To be a fly on the wall, as it were. “My orders are to come here and to assist you in any way I can, mainly as a translator of the local tongues.”

That gets me a short snort through that very long nose.

“I already know how to speak French, girl. There are many with me who can help me with the Spanish and Portuguese.” He gestures to the men who sit by him, two on each side. “I do not think I need you hanging about.”

“Very good, Sir. I am glad to hear that you are so very well served. If you have no need of my services, then perhaps I might be allowed to return to England?”

Hooray! If I am able to get back, I'll be able to book passage to Rangoon and find out what's up with Jaimy! Oh, please, let me go!

“By all means, go. Get out of my sight.”

Fuming at being treated such, but relieved by the turn of events, I go to turn on my heel and head for the exit.
Hooray! Come on, Richard, let's get out of here!

But I don't turn on my heel, nor do we get to the exit.

The man to the right of the general says, “Wait, Miss. Please, Sir. Take a look at this.” And he hands him a paper.

Uh-oh
. . .

The Wellesley eyes scan the paper and then he looks up at me.

“Napoleon himself?”

“By that do you mean, ‘Have I met him?' Then, yes, Sir, I have.”

“Where?”

“At the Battle of Jena. I stood by his side as the fog lifted.”

“And just what were you doing there?”

“He and I were having breakfast.”

“Don't be cute. I repeat: What were you doing there?”

“While under the orders of British Intelligence, I had gained a commission as a second lieutenant in the Grand Army of the Republic. I was assigned as a messenger to
l'Empereur
's staff.”

“Hmmm . . .” Another paper is passed and read. He looks up at me again.

“I see you wear that medal,” he says. “Where did you get it? In a pawnshop?”

I ignore his sneer and reply, “I was at Trafalgar, Sir.”

“Oh, you were? And what was your rating? Trollop? Ship's Pump? Gunner's Wife?” There are snickers from the toadies at the great man's table.

“Sir, I must protest!” says Richard Allen, close by my side.

“Be quiet, Captain, else I will have you removed and demoted, Lord or not. Go on, girl. Exactly what were you doing there?”

“During the battle, I was doing my duty as a lieutenant in charge of a gun crew.”

“As a lieutenant? Is that why you are dressed in that outrageous fashion? A naval officer's jacket on a girl's back? Come, come. You must know that many here would call that a sacrilege of the first order.”

“If it please you, Sir,” I say, hitting a brace, “I was made midshipman by Captain Locke of HMS
Dolphin,
having been in several engagements with pirates, and promoted to lieutenant by Captain Scroggs of HMS
Wolverine,
after an encounter with a French gunboat. To my knowledge, Sir, my commission has not been revoked, nor have I resigned it. I was briefly in command of the
Wolverine,
and in that capacity, I took many prizes that greatly enriched the King's treasury. Furthermore, I was present on my own ship at the action between HMS
Dolphin
and the Spanish First-Rate
San Cristobal,
which resulted in the taking of that eighty-eight-gun man-of-war,” I say, puffing up into a state of high indignation. “So, I ask you, my good sir, who else is more qualified to wear this jacket?”

“General, I can attest to the truth of what she is saying, as I was there,” says Richard, refusing to be silenced.

Wellesley's eyes shift to my gallant light horseman.

“Lord Allen, I perceive that you wear a cavalry uniform on your person and it bears the insignia of a captain in that service. Am I right in that perception?”

“Yes, General, you are,” replies Richard, through clenched jaws.

“Then you must have a unit to which you are obliged to report?”

“Yes, Sir. The Seventh Brigade, Twentieth Light Dragoons.”

“Good. Then go report there. You may leave her here. Good day to you, Sir.”

I feel Richard bristle at the brusque manners, the implied insult, but I put my hand on his arm to restrain him from any rash action on either my behalf or his.

“Go, Richard. I will be all right. Thank you for your kind protection” is what I say with my voice, but my eyes fix on his and they plead,
Oh, Richard, please be careful! Do not worry about me. No silly heroics now, please.

Lord Allen gives a
very
short bow to General Wellesley, and a very deep bow to me. He then turns and leaves me to once again stand alone in front of a table with disapproving males seated behind it, shuffling papers and glowering at my poor self. My back is straight, my arms held stiffly down at my sides, my eyes cased, and my knees locked. I wait for what is to come, with not a great amount of hope.

The questions come quick and fast.

“Not much to you, is there?”

“I believe there is enough of me to get by.”

“You look to be about twelve.”

“I was starved as a child. I was a beggar on the streets of London. Perhaps it stunted my growth.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“You don't look it.”

“I am sorry that I do not meet your expectations.”

“You do not seem very sorry.”

“I am not, Sir. I am what I am.”

Another sheaf of papers is passed to General Wellesley. I get to cool my heels as he reads all about me.

Presently he looks up and says, “Remarkable . . . Even more remarkable is that you have not yet swung from a gallows.”

I risk a shrug. “The Crown and I have not always seen eye to eye on some things.”

“Indeed,” he says, musing as he reads further. “And why have you not yet been hanged?”

“Perhaps it is my winning personality.”

“It is certainly not your beauty.”

“Thank you, Sir. I shall treasure that compliment for the rest of my life, however short that life may be. But, should I displease you in the way of appearance or otherwise, I do beg to be excused, as I do not wish to give offense.”

“Not yet.” He peruses another sheet of paper. “You say you were assigned as a messenger to Napoleon's staff. It seems preposterous.”

“I was a messenger in the Grand Army. I volunteered as an American and gained the rank of
sous
Lieutenant. As such, I delivered many messages for
l'Empereur.
Both to . . . and from him.”

“Hmmm. It says here that you delivered one particular message that could have turned the tide of that particular battle—a message from Bonaparte to Murat ordering him to charge the Prussian line in order to save Marshal Ney's foolhardy ass. This is beyond belief. A mere girl . . . Why should we believe all this twaddle?”

“Believe what you will, Sir,” I say, reaching inside my jacket and pulling out a scrap of paper. I fling it on the desk. “But have any of you ever seen one of
these?
”

There is a gasp as they see what the paper has on it—a seal in bright blue wax showing the large “N” surrounded by acanthus leaves impressed thereon. Below it is written the word “Charge.”

“Yes, gentlemen,” I say. “It is, indeed, Napoleon's imperial seal. He gave it to me as surety when he sent me off to deliver that message to Murat—the message that I did, indeed, deliver.”

Wellesley fumes, his hands crumpling the papers.

“Could you possibly know”—he pauses—“how much easier this war would be to win if Napoleon had fewer battalions? Which he might have been bereft of had you
not
delivered that accursed message?”

“I am not a military tactician. I am only a poor girl who seeks to do her duty for her country.”

There are snorts of derision all around.

“Why do I not simply pull out a pistol, right now, and shoot you down as a traitor?” He brings those flinty gray eyes to bear upon mine. “I believe none would blame me.”

“Many, I am sure, would applaud and sing your praises.” At that, I reach up and unbutton the top of my jacket, exposing the frilly white shirt beneath. “Here is my chest, Sir. Underneath it lies my heart. I am sure you have a pistol close at hand. I trust that, as a soldier, your aim will be true and I will not suffer much. I also hope I will not mess up your bloody floor too very much with my unworthy blood.”

Several of the subalterns are trying to stifle laughter. Wellesley reddens and casts warning looks all around.

“Why do you still have the seal in your possession?” he demands.

“Marshal Murat handed it back to me, there on the Plain of Jena, saying he had plenty of them and I should keep it to show my grandchildren,” I say. “And I shall, should I live long enough to have any such issue.”

General Wellesley ponders this, and then says, “Very well. Quarters will be found for you. Go there and refresh yourself and report back here at two o'clock. You will then tell me every single little thing you know of Napoleon Bonaparte—what he said to you, the orders he gave at Jena, how he was dressed, everything, down to the buckles on his shoes . . . Do you understand?”

I nod, give a medium Lawson Peabody curtsy, spin on my heel, and exit the room.

Another battle fought
. . .
and, I believe, won.

Yes, Higgins, it was quite intense,” I say. “General Sir Arthur Wellesley is definitely a tough piece of work. I am due back in his office at two o'clock to report on my dealings with Napoleon. Will you accompany me?”

“Of course, Miss. Will you change?”

“Yes. I'll wear my Hussar's uniform—
with
the trousers. And the Legion of Honor, too.”

“Might that not be a bit extreme?” he asks, with raised eyebrow.

“Don't care. I didn't like the way I was treated this morning. If the great General doesn't like it, he can shove it up his nose—his very large, extremely long, and very thin nose, I might add. Should fit.”

“Very well, Miss,” says Higgins. He opens my bag and takes out the dark blue uniform and drapes it over a chair.

“And have you gotten a horse for me? From what I hear, I might be needing one soon.”

The word is that there is a battle shaping up, a big one, and if I'm to be a part of it, I know I'll feel better on the back of a good horse.

“Yes, Miss, a quite nice little gray mare. She is tethered in the stable around the corner. But here, stand up, and we shall get you changed.”

Higgins is billeted next door, which I find rather comforting. In general, even though these quarters are somewhat Spartan, on the whole, they're not too bad. After all, we could be quartered in a tent, and then I would be sleeping on the ground. From what I have seen of it, the ground of Portugal looks to be no softer than that of Germany, when last I had the pleasure of slumbering on that unyielding earth . . . harder, even. The layout of this building gives me the feeling that it must have been a hotel of some sort before General Wellesley requisitioned it as his own.

“Changed? You say that like I am still in nappies, Higgins,” I say, bouncing to my feet and stripping off my outer clothing. I retain my short underdrawers and chemise. “I am wounded.”

“I am sorry, Miss. Please don't take offense, but you do require quite a bit of . . . maintenance.”

“Aw, 'Iggins, luv,” I tease. “Ye know it's coz I weren't raised up proper.”

“Ummm . . . Here, first the trousers. Step in, please.” He holds out the pants.

I rest my hands on his shoulders to steady myself and step in. He pulls up the pants, tucks in the undershirt, and fastens the belt. The trousers match the jacket, both in color and fabric, with the addition of a strip of polished leather that runs up the inner side of each thigh, joining at the crotch. It is there to prevent chafing when one is in the saddle for a long time. My leather strips are quite well polished, owing to the time I wore them riding with the French army in Germany last year.

Higgins then adjusts the garment guards, the leather devices that rest under each of my armpits, put there because, while undergarments can be washed with strong soap and made fresh smelling and new again, fine broadcloth jackets cannot. When in a tight spot, I sweat like any other little piggy, and I expect to be in just that kind of spot this afternoon. Knowing that, Higgins has dosed the shields with an extra bit of wheat powder, so I should be set for a while in the way of armpit dryness. This is good, for I would not like to mess up the fine jacket that Higgins now holds up for me.