Viva Jacquelina! (7 page)

With that, he whips out his sword and slaps Isabella on her rump with the flat of the blade. She starts, then takes off with me and I let her have her head for a bit, then turn her, to watch Richard Allen and his men thunder down a street and into the heart of Vimeiro, swords drawn and ready.

God, please watch over them!
I pray, then guide Isabella back to the command post, as ordered.

 

Things there are in turmoil . . .

Wellesley has his glass to his eye. I suspect it has seldom been away from there.

“Here comes Kellermann with his Grenadiers. Look! They are veering to the east to avoid Anstruther's Ninety-seventh. They're going to the village . . . They've reached the church!”

I look in that direction and see the flash of bayonets and hear the shouts and cries of desperate men in hand-to-hand combat, and I know that Richard is in the middle of it.
Oh, Lord!

Wellesley whips around and points his long glass north.

“And Solinac is trying to turn our flank again! But there's Ferguson and his six thousand foot soldiers! That's stopping them, by God! Good show!”

That flank secured, the General turns his attention back to the trouble in the village itself . . .

And in case you haven't noticed, General, we are also in this village!
whimpers my cowardly self as a shell explodes behind us, spooking the horses and causing a light dusting of white powder to rain down upon us.

“Messenger!” roars Wellesley. “Get over here!” He begins to write out something as one of the other messengers steps forward. “Take this to Comandante Montoya. Tell him to aid the defenders of the town!”

I think of Richard and his lads pinned down in the village, facing insurmountable odds and in the greatest need of help, and I step in front of the young horseman, snatch the note, and say, “I'll take it, General. I know where he is. Montoya knows me and I will give him the order. He is probably illiterate, so these written words will do no good.”

Wellesley glares at me. Another shell explodes behind us. He considers and says, “Go, then, and do not fail.”

I leap into the saddle and head off in the direction of where I know Montoya's forces lie hidden behind a ridge. As I go, I see Higgins look up. I give him a wave and I am gone.

I pound down the road and am rounding a curve as another shell goes off to the right of me. My bowels churn, but I've managed to hold my water thus far. Isabella starts but does not slack her speed—
Good girl! Not too much farther! There!

I see, sheltered in a ravine, Montoya and his force of guerrillas. There are about a hundred of them, and they are mounted and ready to go.

“Comandante Montoya! General Wellesley desires that you ride into Vimeiro to aid the defenders there!”

Montoya grins widely, exposing his strong white teeth. “
Naturalmente,
Tenente. Lead on.”

I wheel Isabella about and gallop back the way I came, with one hundred very irregular but very determined fighters behind me.

Soon, the roofs and spires of the town appear and Montoya comes up to ride by my side.

“You see the church steeple?” I shout, pointing. “That's where the fighting is the fiercest!”

“And that is where we will go, Tenente,” says Montoya, waving his band of guerrillas on. “I hope to see you again,
menina
!” He gives me a look I can only describe as lecherous, salutes, and surges on into the town.

I would follow, but the street is too narrow and I am stopped by a wall and must pull back and wait for the main force to enter before I can do anything.

What to do? Follow them in? Pull my puny sword and wave it about? Go back to Wellesley and await further orders? What?

Bombs fall and there are dull thuds and clouds of thrown-up earth when they land. I hear the horrid shrieks of the mindless metal rockets that fly overhead and I hear the screams of anguish torn from human throats when those uncaring missiles fall and do their awful damage.

No!
The coward in me says,
No! Go back, Jacky! Do as Richard says! Go back to Headquarters!
But . . . I cannot do it. Allen and the lads are in there and I must go join them.

Deep breath, let it out, and I put my heels to Isabella's flanks and down the narrow street we plunge, terrified girl on terrified horse.

I keep the church steeple in my sights as I gallop down one empty street and up another, and . . .

There they are!

I see our red-coated Dragoons lined up against a low wall, on the other side of which is a vast plain and on that plain is rank upon rank of French infantry marching relentlessly on toward us. Our men fire their muskets with military precision and the French fire back. Bullets whistle all about like angry bees, but oh-so-much-more-deadly than mere insects. A bee will sting, but a bullet will kill.

Lord Richard Allen is in the middle of his men, firing his Kentucky Long Rifle with deadly accuracy. He pulls the trigger and I look out and see a Frenchman in the first line pitch forward into the dust.

I drop down off Isabella and crouch next to Richard as he is reloading.

“Princess, godammit!” he growls, fixing me with a look of complete exasperation. “You shouldn't be—”

“Too late, Richard!” I cry and duck my head. A rocket has hit the base of the steeple behind us. I turn to see it totter and fall into the street, blocking a quick way out up that road, anyway. A cloud of white dust from the destruction floats down over us all.

Pulling my pistols from my belts, I lean over the wall and point them at the French, aiming low, hoping to wound, rather than kill, but in the heat of battle, who knows where one's deadly bullets fly—into the tough hide of a grizzled old veteran who grunts and pushes on, or into the tender heart of a young boy who lies down and quietly dies. In the fog of war, no one knows anything.

I pull both triggers and feel the pistols buck in my hands. Turning, I slide down, my back to the wall, to reload. Pull the white cartridge from my belt, bite the bullet out of the corner, and pour the powder down the barrel. Then spit the bullet down after it and pull the short ramrod from its bracket under the barrel and cram the leaden slug down all snug against the powder. The tiny percussion cap is pressed down on its nipple, and the pistol is loaded and ready.

As I load my other gun, I look up and down our line—our very thin red line—and see that Montoya has spread his men out on our left flank.
Good man,
I'm thinkin' . . . Then I see one of ours cry out and fall backward onto the cobblestones to writhe in pain . . . and he is not the only one. Three others lie still and unmoving.

Who? Oh, God! No, Archie; not Seamus, not—

“Sergeant!” roars Allen. “Close up the rank!”

I turn again to fire my puny pistols, so small in all this mayhem, and see Sergeant Bailey directing men to fill the spots of the fallen.

The French are much closer now, perhaps only fifty yards away . . . now forty . . . now thirty . . .

Again, I fire, seeking only to wound, to stop that dread advance, but I know full well that those who press forward seek not to wound but to kill, with shot, shell, or bayonet . . . and in a few minutes, it will be hand to hand, and it will be with those cruel blades.

A bullet hits the top of the wall next to my face and ricochets off over my shoulder, throwing a shower of gritty dust into my eye.
Yeouch!

“Keep your stupid head down, Jacky!” Richard yells over the din, shoving me below the wall. I rub at my eye to free it of the dirt. “Twentieth Dragoons . . . fix bayonets!” he bellows.

There is the rattle of metal on metal as, all along the line, Captain Allen's order is obeyed. Across the field, the sun glints off the French bayonets as well and . . .

Oh, Lord, it's gonna get nasty. Soon those cruel barrel-borne knives will be thrust into soft bodies to grate upon bone and life-blood will flow down the bayonets' blood-gutters to spill upon the ground.

Twenty yards . . . now ten.

“Another volley, men!” shouts Allen, standing and leveling his rifle. “Let's slow the bastards down! Lay on, lads, steady down! Steady now. Give it to 'em . . . Give it—”

I sense, rather than hear, the bullet that thuds into Richard Allen's chest.

“Damn. Deuced bother . . . Sorry, Princess.” He gasps and then slumps against me.

Richard! No!

But yes, it is true, a much darker stain of crimson creeps across the front of his scarlet coat. His eyes are closed and he knows no more of this battle.

“Sergeant! Archie! Tommy!” I cry, wrapping my arms about Richard's shoulders. “The Captain is down! Come help, boys, oh, please, come help me!”

But they cannot come, for the battle is too fierce and they must fight on or else all will be lost, all will be wounded, all will be dead.

I stagger to my feet.

We've got to get out of here, Richard, we do. There's Isabella there
. . .
If I can get you on her we can get to . 
.
 .

But we can get to nothing.

Through all my fear, sorrow, and confusion, I hear the high whistling sound of an incoming shell. Then there is a flash and a scream and I hear and see no more.

All is the deep darkness and silence of the tomb
. . .

There is a great ball of fire in the sky and it burns my slowly opening eyes as I climb back into consciousness.
Oh, God, let me be, please, let me alone, I hurt, I hurt . 
.
 .

“Is she alive, Joachim?” I hear someone above me say.

“
Sí,
comandante.”

“
Bueno.
Pick her up and take her to the hospital. It is right over there.”

I feel myself being lifted and carried. The eyelids finally flutter open and I see Montoya above me, astride his horse, his black sombrero framing his face.

I twist my head and look about, all confused. There is a large jagged hole in the road where that shell hit . . . and, oh, no . . . there lies my poor Isabella on her side, her neck stretched out, and all the rest of her quite still and, I know, quite dead.
Oh, I only knew you for a little while, but you were a good little mare. If there is a heaven for horses, I hope you are there, little one, and I hope the grass is green.

As all of my shaky senses return, I realize a strong young man has his right arm under my legs at the knees, and the other arm around my shoulders, while my head lolls about, my shako dangling from my neck on its leather strap.

I start to squirm.

“No . . . no, I am all right,” I protest. “I don't have to go to hospital. Just let me down, please, just let me get back. I must find—”

“The battle is over, Miss, and we have won the day,
gracias a Dios,
” says Montoya. He is no longer smiling.

“But then, why?”

“Because I think you will want to go there, Senhorita,” says the very rough man, with some kindness in his voice. “The man who kissed you the other day when I sat at his table. I found him
simpático.
He is in there. With many others.”

I gasp.
Richard!

I wriggle out of the man's grasp and discover that I am standing in front of a large warehouse. From the sounds of pain and agony coming from within, I know exactly what it is—a battlefield hospital, little more than a charnel house, a place of butchery and despair and death.

I meet Sergeant Bailey coming out, supporting a wounded Archie MacDuff, who has a bandage around his head, through which blood is seeping. Seeing me, he says, “Over to the left. Fourth bed. Sorry, Miss.”

I rush in the door and am once again greeted with the cries and groans of the wounded. I had been in a hospital like this on the battlefield of Jena, where I said my last goodbyes to Captain Bardot.
Please, Lord, don't let it be like that this time, please.

There he is. He lies on his back on a rude cot. There is a cut to his head and blood covers half his beautiful face, but that worries me less than the bloodstain on his left side just below the rib cage.

“Oh, Richard,” I sob. “Can you hear me?”

His eyelids flutter open and fix on me. He smiles.

“Hello, Princess. Good to see you.”

“Richard, dear, I am so sorry!”

“Ah. It is but a scratch.” He moves a bit and groans, proving it is not just a scratch. “Did we win?”

“Yes, the day is ours.”

“My men?”

“I saw Sergeant Bailey and Private MacDuff outside. They are all right. I don't know about the others. I think most came through.”

“That's good, I . . . I . . .” his eyelids droop and fall shut.

No, Richard, don't die!

A man stands next to me and, seeing my concern, says, “We have given him something. For the pain.”

“Will he live, Doctor? Oh, please say he will!”

“He might. And you should get that scrape patched up.”

A cut on my forehead, which I had not yet noticed, persists on bleeding into my eye. Must have happened when I hit the dirt.

I wipe it away and say, “Never mind that. What will happen to him now?”

“HMS
Tortoise
is being made over into a hospital ship. As soon as we fill her up with wounded, she'll be off for Britain. Then we'll fill up HMS
Guardian,
too.”

In spite of its distress, my mind clears and turns prac-tical.

“Do you want to make an easy one hundred pounds?” I ask the surgeon.

“I would not mind it.”

The man has a notebook and he is writing in it—the names of the recently dead, no doubt.

“Please give me something to write on.”

He lifts his eyebrows but passes me the book and pencil, and I write furiously in it. When I pass it back to him, I say, “Make sure this man gets on the first ship and is well cared for. Afterwards, get him to this address, such that he comes under the care of a Dr. Stephen Sebastian. Present this note and you'll receive your one hundred pounds. You will see words to that effect right there.”