Viva Jacquelina! by L. A. Meyer Read Free Book Online Page B

“Verily, it is just the place for you and your fine mind.”
    â€œAnd you, Miss?” he asks, returning the notebook to his vest pocket. “I advise caution, and I hope this time that advice will not be in vain.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Higgins. Remember, you are talking to Jacky Faber, Committed Coward. I shall be all right. I will go to headquarters with you and stand by Wellesley’s side, whether he wants me there or not. It is, after all, where my orders directed me to be, and where I should be safe. Generals seldom die in battle, and neither do their aides-de-camp.”
    â€œWell, that is to be hoped,” says Higgins, a bit doubtfully. “Shall we go, Miss?”
    â€œYes, Higgins, lead on.”
    We exit our wing of what I have come to call the Hotel Vimeiro, and I go to the stable to collect my mount, whom I have named Isabella, she being a pretty little thing, while Higgins goes off to join Mr. Scovell.
    I lead my little mare around to the front of the building and find that Wellesley has moved his campaign outdoors. There is a slight rise of ground that gives a fine view of the battleground.
    I tie Isabella to a rail that is already lined with horses and walk over to the center of activity, in the middle of which is, of course, General Sir Arthur Wellesley.
    Dawn is beginning to pink up the eastern horizon, and that is the direction from which the French will come. There is a road leading between two low ridges to here.
    And there they are, all in red, white, and blue . 
.
 .
    The sun is even higher now, and we can see the advancing French columns surging right up the road leading to the town. There’s certainly nothing very subtle about the direction of their march over the plain. They are heading directly for us and mean to overpower our poor lads with their overwhelming might.
    Oh, Lord . 
.
 .
    â€œI see you are being English today, Miss Faber,” growls the General upon seeing me. “What are you doing here?”
    I bring heels together, put hand to brim, and snap off a salute. “I was messenger to Bonaparte, and I shall be messenger to you, Sir, as well.”
    â€œ
Harrumph.
Well, stay out of the way, girl.”
    I give a slight bow, more of a nod, really, and step back to stand with a group of red-coated junior officers—plainly messengers, I surmise, and I find out I am right when one of them is called to the big table, given a paper, and sent off to the north. Undoubtedly to Anstruther’s Seventh Brigade, which lies over the hills in that direction.
    My fellow messengers eye me curiously, but I am certainly used to that. Excitement is high, but one of them who steps from the throng manages to ask, “Are you really Jacky Faber? It’s said around camp that you are, indeed, she.”
    I give him the Lawson Peabody Look—eyelids at half mast beneath the brim of my shako, lips together, teeth apart—and say, “That’s
Lieutenant
Jacky Faber, Ensign, and yes, I suppose I am.”
    â€œMy word,” he says, visibly impressed. “Jacky Faber standing right here. Imagine that.”
    There are none of the regular brigade commanders here, all eight of them—Crawfurd, Anstruther, Acland, Fane, Ferguson, Nightingall, Bowes, and Hill—are off with their troops. There are, however, two generals in our midst whom I had not seen before. Curious, that . . . arriving on the scene so close to the start of the battle.
    â€œImagine what you will, lad, but who are those two?” I ask of my new admirer, nodding in the direction of the two brass hats.
    â€œGenerals Burrard and Dalrymple, newly arrived from home.” He leans into me and whispers, “From what I hear, I don’t think Old Nosey is at all pleased.”
    â€œHmmm . . . ‘Many cooks spoil the stew’ comes to mind.”
    â€œIndeed, that is the supposition. Ahem . . . Would you mind, Lieutenant, if I were to