Viva Jacquelina! (2 page)

Goodbye, Mommy.

 

Steam lingers about my stateroom as Higgins begins to deck me out in my finest—first, the drawers with flounces about the knees and calves, then chemise and white shirt with lace at the throat and cuffs. I had wrung every bit of sensual enjoyment out of that tub, knowing full well it might prove to be the last real soaking the Faber frame shall have for a good long while, in that we are debarking today to join up with the British army somewhere in the interior of this war-torn country, and bathtubs are a rare commodity when on bivouac. I have been assigned by British Intelligence to the staff of General Arthur Wellesley, Commander of British Forces on the Iberian Peninsula, as translator of Spanish, French, and Portuguese. This was part of the deal that kept the tender necks of both Jaimy Fletcher and myself from being wrapped in their assigned nooses—me for General Larceny and High Crimes Against the Crown and Jaimy for roaring crazily around Blackheath robbing travelers on the broad highway south of London as the dread Black Highwayman. It is true that he was a bit off his nut when he did all that, but still, it took a bit of doing for me to gain him a pardon, which I did by convincing a rich Chinese merchant to bring valuable and mostly looted antiquities to donate to the British Museum, and then—oh, it's all too much to think about. I'll just let my biographer and very dear friend, Amy Trevelyne, sort it all out when she goes to put it down on paper, just as she has already done with my other adventures. For now, suffice to say that Jaimy is being taken on Chopstick Charlie's ship to Rangoon to recover his senses.

Do not worry, Ju kau-jing yi. We will take care of him. We have potions . 
.
 . herbs . 
.
 . soothing medicines . 
.
 . He shall be fine when next you see him.

But, Charlie—

But nothing, my Little Round-Eyed Barbarian, just stop crying and go. We must leave now . 
.
 . The authorities are a bit agitated, you know . 
.
 .

. . . and I am being sent to the war zone to do my duty to Crown and Country.
Hmmm . 
.
 .
Perhaps Jaimy is getting the better deal. I well remember the charms of Charlie Chen's palace in Burma—that turquoise pool, Mai Ling and Mai Ji . . . and Sidrah . . . Oh, well, enjoy, Jaimy, but maybe not too much . . .

 

I shake my head and I'm back in my stateroom on the
Tortoise
and Higgins is finishing up. He places the rump roll on the small of my back and attaches it with clips, and the blue skirt goes over that, cinched at my waist, and flowing down in pleats to the tops of my boot-clad feet. That roll thing has replaced the rather cumbersome bustle in female fashion and I rather like it—it adds a bit of jauntiness to my tail without getting in the way. And hey, if the lads find it pleasing to gaze upon a well-rounded female rump, well, then, I could use a little help in that regard, since I am still rather skinny, in spite of all the food I have put down my neck over the past few years.

“I wonder if the General has commandeered a house for his headquarters. Or is he working out of a tent?” I ask as Higgins adjusts my gear. Trust Jacky Faber to wonder what her future accommodations will be. She much prefers a cozy room to a drafty and often-damp tent. Oh, well, it is my nature to take what comes in the way of shelter, be it made of sturdy stone and plaster or sodden canvas.

“You shall not have to wonder for long, Miss. I have been informed that General Wellesley had a great victory at Rolica last week but does not want to push his luck, so he has sent his main force here to guard this landing. Six thousand men, after all, would be quite a loss, should the troops be surprised and taken. We should soon have good information as to our immediate future.”

There is a knock on the door.

“Yes?”

“An army officer is asking for you, Miss. On the outer deck.”

“Thank you, Johnny. I'll be right out.”

Higgins holds up my lieutenant's jacket—all deep blue, with high collar and gold trim—and I thrust my arms through it and button up the front. There. All tight and trim, just the way I like it.

The blond wig goes on and is adjusted.

“Your hat, Miss?”

“I think my midshipman's cap will serve. I look ridiculous in that lieutenant's hat.”

“It does tend to overwhelm your rather small features, Miss,” agrees Higgins. “Your medals?”

“Just the Trafalgar. I don't want to alarm the poor general.”

“Very well, Miss,” he says, taking the medal out of its box and looping the ribbon about my neck such that the silver medallion with the image of Lord Nelson struck on its gleaming surface rests upon my chest.

“Thank you, Higgins. Shall we go up?”

“You go, Miss,” says Higgins, opening the door for me. “I have some final packing to do.”

Cap on head, I go out into the corridor to find Midshipman Harrington standing at attention.

I place my hand upon his arm and say, “Lead me on, Johnny, my fine young sailor lad, lead me on.”

 

When we gain the deck and step out into the sunshine, I am very gratified to see Cavalry Captain Lord Richard Allen waiting for me, looking absolutely splendid in his scarlet regimentals—blazing red jacket with white turnouts and gold buttons, white trousers, black boots with spurs, and gold-braided shako on head.
Ah, yes, every inch my bold dragoon!

“Good day, my lord,” I say, with a small curtsy. “It is so good to see you. I hope you passed a pleasant night?”

“Pleasant enough, Miss Faber,” says Richard Allen, looking pointedly at my hand, which still rests on the arm of my young escort. “Considering you were not by my side.”

I feel the midshipman's arm tighten at that.

Richard gives Johnny a look that plainly says, S
he's way out of your league, puppy, so forget any hot thoughts you might have in that regard. Back to your lonely hammock, boy, and suffer!

“Carry on with your duties, Midshipman,” growls Lord Allen to the poor middie. “I have custody of the lady.”

I give Midshipman Jonathan Harrington a smile, a wink, and a final squeeze of his arm as he flushes, salutes, casts a look upon me, does an about-face, and strides off, full, I am sure, of young male resentment.

“Could it be that you have made another conquest, Princess? Another Pale and Loitering Knight in Thrall to La Belle Jeune Fille Sans Merci?” asks Allen, watching the lad retreat, with some contempt writ on his face. “Seems to me there would be scant sport in bringing one such as him to heel.”

I laugh. “Oh, come on, Richard, he and I are of the same age and he is a nice young man. He was good company to me while you were off supervising the daily disposal of several tons of horse manure, or whatever other manly things of great importance that you do when you are not trying to toss my fallible self into a handy bed.”

Allen gives a lordly snort. “The beasts do produce a lot of that rather smelly commodity, and they are difficult to care for at sea, poor devils, being afraid of the constant movement,” he says with a smile. “But enough of horsy lore.” He bows slightly, taking my hand and kissing the back of it. “May I say, you look lovely, my dear little woodland sprite?”

“Thank you, sir. And may I say in return that you look absolutely smashing?”

“You may,” replies the rogue, running his tongue over his lips. “But, I must say, the dear little hand tastes of soap . . . and as for that bed—”

“I have just come from my bath.” I sniff, all prim and proper, and withdraw that same hand. “And never mind about my bed.”

“Hmm . . . An interesting image comes to mind—young Princess Pretty-Bottom, late of the Shawnee Tribe, the
Belle of the Golden West,
various backwaters of the Mississippi River, the
Lorelei Lee,
and other similar environs, lolling about in luxurious suds. Ummm, yes. However, I must banish it from my mind, lest I go mad with lust.”

I give him a poke. “Be good, you.”

“Mind you, soap is fine, in its place, but I much prefer your natural flavor—or flavors—Princess.”

Time to change the subject.

“Never mind me and my meager charms, milord,” I say. “Tell me about our situation here.”

Lord Allen turns and guides me to the rail of the ship, such that we might observe the goings-on at the dock.

“Our gallant forces, under General Wellesley, have just won a great victory at Rolica. Of course, we outnumbered the Frogs four to one, but no matter. It is still the first British victory over Napoleon and we will take it, however one-sided things were. The French, under the command of General Delaborde, were retreating in disorder and our army could have overwhelmed and slaughtered them, but Wellesley, hearing that this force of six thousand was arriving at Lisbon, instead sent the army here to cover our debarkation.”

“So he is a careful man?”

“Yes, though Old Nosey is a bold fighter, he is never one to take foolish chances, and the loss of the six thousand of us would be quite a blow to his cause.”

“Old Nosey?”

“Yes. He has a rather prominent nose. I would advise you not to stare at it when you first meet the great man.”

“Um, I shall take that to heart,” I say, nodding. “What sort of leader is he?”

Allen considers, then says, “His men respect and admire him and are glad to have him as their general, for their safety depends on his sound judgment, but they do not love him.”

“And why not?”

“He has a rather harsh personality. It is said that he does not suffer fools gladly.”

“Hmm. I wonder if he suffers jumped-up young female twits gladly,” I say with some trepidation. “Where is he headquartered?”

“He has taken over a building in a place called Vimeiro, where I believe there is to be a battle. We are to catch up with him there.”

“I hope you will be able to go with me, Richard?”

“Yes, I have been assigned to convey you to the great man and watch over your precious tail till we arrive. And, yes, I shall be allowed to introduce you to him, as it were. Lordship does have its privileges.”

“And after that, my good and most protective lord?” I purr, lifting his arm to place it around my shoulders and snuggling a bit into his side.

“After that, Cavalry Captain Allen, and the unruly pack of scoundrels he calls his men, will report to the Twentieth Light Dragoons, Seventh Brigade, to assist in bringing Napoleon's minions to bay.”

Looking out, I see Bailey, Captain Allen's trusted top sergeant, trying to bring some order to the chaos on the dock below. He has his hand wrapped around the reins of a particularly recalcitrant beast.

“Ahoy, Sergeant!” I call out, giving him a merry wave. “And there's Private MacDuff, too! Hello, Archie!”

The two soldiers look up and knuckle their brows by way of salute. A bit ruefully, I suspect—my having peppered the whole of Richard's troop of dragoons with rock salt shot from my cannons on the
Belle of the Golden West,
back there on the Mississippi, but I believe they have largely forgiven me for that.

“I will hate to see you go, Richard,” I say, giving him the big eyes. “And I want you to be very careful. I have a feeling things are going to get very messy around here.”

“Thank you for your concern, Princess, but we must go where Fortune sends us, must we not, as it is the poor soldier's lot. Ah, there's your coach. Are you ready to go?”

“As soon as Higgins comes up with our stuff. Ah. Here he is now.”

“Then let us be off, Princess,” says Lord Allen, offering his arm to lead me down the gangway. “And into the Peninsular War.”

How many of my poor teeth are still left firmly in my jaw after that bone-shaking journey from Lisbon to here, I do not know. Suffice to say, the Portuguese have a lot to learn in the way of road building. God, I so much wanted to be outside that cramped coach and on a good horse, riding and singing next to Richard Allen—or maybe just riding up behind him, double like, with my arms wrapped around his middle. But such was not to be, oh, no. Frail female had to be delivered in sturdy coach, military regulations and all, don'cha know; never mind her poor aching backbone.

We rattle through miles and miles of dry, rocky, and scrubby land before we finally pull up before the big white stone building General Arthur Wellesley has taken for his headquarters here in Vimeiro, and we emerge from that wretched coach to stand in the sunlight and stretch. I put the knuckles of my right fist into the small of my back and grind it till things feel a little bit better back there. Give me a rolling, pitching, yawing ship thrashing about in gale-force winds and heavy seas any day of the week, I say.

Anyway, we are here. Two red-coated soldiers stand guard outside the entrance of the building, together with a junior officer. They do not look at all welcoming.

“I shall stand by, Miss, until given instructions as to where we will be quartered,” says Higgins, seeing to the removal of our baggage from the coach.

“Very good, John. We shall soon find that out. Captain Allen?”

Allen, having dismounted and given his horse off to Private MacDuff, strides to the door and announces, his hand on the hilt of his sword, “Captain Richard Allen to see General Wellesley.”

The officer who stands by the door asks, “For what purpose, Sir?”

“None of your goddamn business, Sir. Announce us,” answers Lord Allen, frosting the man down to his boots with his patrician gaze, a gaze honed by centuries of ancestors using the same in putting underlings in their place. “That's
Lord
Richard Allen.”

The composure of the very junior officer crumples under that gaze and he retreats into the interior of the building.

Presently, he comes back out and, with a bow, ushers us in.