Almost Complete Short Fiction, page 38
“Never mind,” the Emperor said impatiently. “What do you want, lad?”
The boy—he really was not much more—took a deep breath and gathered himself visibly. “I have to report, your Majesty,” he said with strained formality, “that the enemy are attacking our position in strength.”
The Emperor’s head appeared through the carriage window. “What?” he cried, and then paused, hearing, now that the horses’ hooves were silent, the distant rattle and pop of musket fire from somewhere on down the river.
“But the guns,” he said then, staring at the horseman. “I hear neither our artillery nor the ships’ guns!”
The lad shook his head. “Not the ships, sir. They came in from the east—looks like they crossed Lake Borgne yesterday, in the fog, and moved up through the bayous, and then early this morning they came up out of the swamp and across the plantation fields—one of Colonel Crockett’s scouts spotted them, but, uh, well, General Jackson didn’t believe him at first—” He stopped, looking appalled at his own indiscretion. “Uh, that is to say—”
The Emperor said, “Name of God! They attacked from the landward side?”
“Yes, sir.” The ensign nodded. “Where our defenses were weakest, and of course all the big guns are emplaced to cover the river—”
“The English,” the Emperor said, “do they have artillery?”
“Don’t know, your Majesty. Haven’t brought them into play yet, if they do. Plenty of infantry, though. Must be a thousand, maybe two thousand, hard to tell in this fog. They just keep coming.” The ensign’s eyes were blinking rapidly. “General Jackson sent me to warn you—”
“Yes, yes.” The carriage door opened; the Emperor began clambering down, not waiting for me to attend him. Before I could get down from the seat, he was already standing in the road, snapping his fingers at the young officer. “Your horse,” he said. “Give me your horse.”
“Sir? Your Majesty?” The ensign looked blank, but then he must have seen the Emperor’s expression more clearly. “Yes, sir,” he said hastily, and swung down. “Uh, shall I—”
“You shall get out of my way.” The Emperor was already hauling himself into the saddle, clumsily and with obvious pain. “Driver, follow me. Let the ensign ride with you.”
Swinging the horse about, digging his dress boot heels into its flanks, the Emperor disappeared at a gallop into the fog, toward the growing noise of battle. After a moment the driver raised his eyebrows and put the team in motion again, while the young ensign scrambled aboard and pulled himself up beside us.
Already we could see the flashes of gunfire through the mist ahead, and now louder explosions came rolling up the road to meet us: cannon getting into the action at last. I looked inquiringly at the young hussar, but he shook his head. “No idea,” he said hoarsely. “No telling whose—”
Then there was a blast like all the thunder in the world, and another right on its heels, and his face went even paler. “Oh, my God,” he whispered. “Warships firing broadsides. The bastards are hitting us from the river too.”
It hardly required a formal military education to see the implications: the defenders caught between advancing British infantry in one direction and the fire of the ships’ guns raking them from the other.
The ensign was climbing down now. “You better wait here,” he called up to the driver.
The driver pulled the carriage to a stop, while the ensign dropped to the ground, just as the first soldiers appeared through the fog coming the other way. Infantry, wearing the blue uniforms of the Empire, and running very hard. . .
Perched up on top of the carriage, I had a fine view of the rout. They ran past us on either side, hardly a man even seeming to notice us except as an obstacle; their eyes were enormous in their smoke-blackened faces and their mouths mostly hung open. A few clutched at bloody wounds.
Horsemen appeared now, most of them in flight as well, a few—officers, I supposed—evidently trying, without success, to stop the retreat. Horse and foot, the hurrying tide jammed the road and spread out over the open fields to our left, without order or discipline but with a splendid unity of direction: away from the British, toward the city and safety, while behind them the guns still bellowed and muskets and rifles cracked.
Our hussar ensign stood in the middle of the road, waving his sword, shouting at the fleeing men, ordering them to turn back, till he tripped—or was tripped—and went down and disappeared under all those running feet. I closed my eyes for a moment in revulsion.
When I opened them I saw that the driver was pointing. “Look,” he said, and after a moment I saw them, the Emperor and General Jackson, charging their horses this way and that amid the hurrying throng, slowly being forced back along the road by weight of numbers. Jackson was slashing this way and that with his sword, without apparent effect; the Emperor, who rarely wore side arms, was in any case having to use both hands to control the hussar’s frightened horse.
And quite soon they went past us too, Jackson on the left—he turned and gave me a furious look as he passed, God knows why—and the Emperor on the right. The Emperor did not even glance our way. His face was terrible to see.
Finally they were all past, leaving us alone on the levee-top road, though off across the open ground a few stragglers still picked their way through the sugar-cane trash. And, a few minutes later, a fresh batch of men came out of the fog, moving less hurriedly and in a far more orderly manner. Even in the misty light, their red coats looked very fine.
The driver’s nerve broke, then; without a word he scrambled down from the seat and took off up the road, after the departing Imperial troops. Left alone, I took the reins and quieted the restive horses, and a few minutes later found myself surrounded by grinning red-coated infantrymen. “Wot’s the matter, then, Uncle?” one called up to me. “Run off and leave you, did they?”
Another cried, “Look, boys! Burn my arse if this ain’t Boney’s carriage! Look here, on the doors!”
They all gathered around, staring and chattering; then all fell silent as an elegantly uniformed man came riding up on a horse. “You men!” he called. “Who gave the order to break formation?” Then, seeing the carriage, “Damme!”
He looked at me. “Emperor’s driver, are you?”
“Merely a manservant,” I told him. “Sir.”
“Major Grigsby, 7th Fusiliers.” He gave a mocking little half-salute. “Can you drive this thing, then, my man?”
“After a fashion.”
“Then,” he said, “be so good as to do so, until you reach a point where you can turn off this road, which you are now blocking, and which we need for the guns.” He turned. “Sergeant, detail four men to escort this vehicle, and guard it against the light-fingered. The commander will enjoy this, I should think.”
A beefy-faced man said, “Sir, what about the nigger?”
“Guard him, too. The commander may want to question him.” He turned his horse. “The rest of you, back in formation and resume your advance. Keep the damned rascals on the run.”
When they were gone one of my guards gave me a gap-toothed grin. “You ’eard the Major,” he told me. “No tricks, now, and look smart. You’re going to meet the Dook.”
Sir Arthur Wellesley, First Duke of Wellington, was a tall, lean, imposing man with a long-nosed aristocratic face that would not have looked out of place on a Roman statue. By the time he got around to me it was late in the evening, and he must have put in a very long hard day indeed, yet he showed no signs of fatigue. Or much else; I had the impression of a man who, in Sam Houston’s phrase, played his cards close to his vest.
Our interview was quite short; it did not take long for him to realize that I was merely a household servant, who knew nothing of the Emperor’s military plans and had never overheard anything of possible value—or who, at any rate, was never going to admit otherwise.
“I have no idea,” he said at last, “whether you are as stupid as you pretend, or very clever indeed. Some officers, in my position, would issue instructions to see if a sound whipping would improve your memory. But no fear.” He allowed himself a very slight smile. “It hardly matters. The lines of battle, from this point forward, are inevitable.”
He paced back and forth a bit, looking at me. It was dark outside and the interior of the tent was lit by a single candle.
“So,” he said, “what shall I do with you? Strictly speaking, you are not a prisoner of war, since you are not a soldier or even a free man . . . would you like to be?” He raised an eyebrow. “My orders are to free any slaves who wish to join our forces.”
“I would like to be free,” I told him. “I have, however, no wish to join your forces or any others.”
“Ah. Want to be your own man, eh? A worthy ambition, by God.” He actually chuckled, very softly and very briefly. “Well, for the moment, I think you had best remain with us. You have seen quite a lot, I’m sure, whilst waiting about.”
That was true; I had had nothing to but watch, while men and guns came ashore from the transports and were formed up in order and sent marching northward along the river road. It had been an impressive sight, and not an encouraging one from the Imperial viewpoint.
“You might,” Wellington added, “be tempted to run back to your master. I’m sure he’d be interested in what you could tell him. Better to keep you out of temptation’s way.”
And so I spent the next two days as a prisoner who was not quite a prisoner. The distinction was largely ignored by the soldiers, who made me do various menial tasks about the camp, and occasionally kicked me for no particular reason.
It was from the British side, then, that I watched the final Battle of New Orleans. Not being a soldier, I could make little sense of what I saw—not that I could see much anyway, from where I stood near a battery of unreasonably loud cannon.
But I could see that the outcome was not much in doubt. The British obviously had an overpowering superiority in artillery—the defenders having lost so many guns at English Turn, and the invaders having brought plenty of their own; a child could have seen the discrepancy at a glance, once the battle was joined. Wellington’s gunners—joined by Nelson’s seamen, who had brought heavy ships’ cannon ashore to reinforce the army—turned a devastating storm of shot on the Imperial lines, answered only by weak and scattered fire. Even standing to the rear, I was deafened and well-nigh blinded by the steady and excruciating roar, and my bowels felt very loose; I cannot imagine what it must have been like for those who were its targets. I had had no idea that war was such a noisy and messy business. It looked so much neater in the paintings and engravings.
Then Wellington’s infantry advanced in their implacable ranks, and after that I lost any real grasp of what was going on. I could see the battle only as a distant indistinct dark line—one that soon began to grow even more distant, moving first raggedly and slowly, then with much greater speed, to the north, in the direction of the city.
“Buggers are running again,” one of my guards observed. “That’s it, then. Be a jolly old time tonight in Noo Orleens.”
At some point, late in the afternoon, my guards simply disappeared. Heading for the city, no doubt, not wanting to miss out on the looting and general sport.
After an irresolute pause, I set off in that direction myself, walking along the river road. No one paid me any mind; everyone was hurrying toward the city. Already plumes of smoke had begun to appear above the rooftops, indicating that this was going to be a long night.
Then suddenly there was a stir of activity up ahead and I saw the Duke of Wellington sitting on his horse by the roadside, taking reports from dispatch riders and conferring with some officers. I started to detour around the scene, only to be stopped short by Wellington’s voice: “You there! The Emperor’s servant!”
I turned and walked back and looked up at the Duke. “Well,” he said, “your master has lost the hand. And, I believe, the game.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, blank-faced.
“He seems to have given us the slip,” Wellington said. “Would you know anything about that? Ever hear anything to suggest what plans your Emperor might have made, for a contingency such as this?”
“No, sir. I do not believe,” I said truthfully, “he ever seriously envisioned such an event.”
“Ah, yes. Quite.” A quick nod. “Well, well, no matter.” To an officer at his side he added, “Boney’s done for, no matter where he’s gone. Now we hold New Orleans, the Empire can be strangled at our pleasure.”
“And then,” the officer said, “perhaps we shall see about the damned Yankees and their so-called United States of America.”
“Very possibly.” The Duke shook his head. “Please God, not until after I have relinquished command to some younger man. I grow tired. I wish to go home.”
To me, then: “Go your way, then. You are free—at least insofar as His Britannic Majesty’s forces are concerned. If you ever do see your master again, thank him for the carriage. I intend to ride in it, when I enter his city tomorrow.”
“On New Year’s Day,” another officer murmured.
“Why, yes. So it will be,” the Duke said, sounding surprised. “Do you know, I had forgotten.”
It was dark by the time I made my way into the city. It was a dangerous time to walk the streets; British soldiers were everywhere, helping themselves to whatever struck their fancy—including any women so foolish, or adventurous, as to be caught out-of-doors. From every direction came the sounds of breaking glass, male shouts and female screams, and the odd gunshot.
A hand grabbed my arm and jerked me into the mouth of a dark alley; another hand clamped itself over my mouth. A familiar voice hissed in my ear, “Quiet, now, Albert!”
Released, I turned and said, “It’s all right. There’s no one nearby.”
“Good,” Houston said, and Crockett grunted agreement. “Where you been?”
“You wouldn’t believe me,” I said, “What happened? Today, I mean?”
“Just like I was afeared,” Crockett said. “Our boys broke. Stood their ground pretty good at first, but then they seen them redcoats coming on and on, never missing a step, never making a sound, sun shining off them bayonets, it was too much.”
“The Tennessee militia broke first,” Houston added. “And then the Kentuckians, on the left. But then everybody was taking off. Nearly, anyway. The ones who didn’t mostly got bayonetted or captured, I guess.”
“Jackson’s dead,” Crockett said with a certain satisfaction. “Tried to stop the rout, started hitting out with that God-damned sword of his, and somebody shot him right out of his saddle.”
I said, “They say the Emperor has disappeared.”
“He commandeered the St. Louis steamboat,” Houston told me. “Guess that’s where he’s bound.”
“Will you be joining him?” I asked. “If you can escape from the city?”
“No.” Crockett spat. “Had enough of soljering. Me and Sam figure to head out west. Trap furs or something.”
“Want to come along?” Houston grinned. “See the wild frontier.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but I think not. I believe I know where I can find employment. Once order has been restored, Madame Letitia’s establishment should find itself doing a great deal of business. I’m sure she will need a good pianoforte player.”
“Then so long.” Crockett slapped me on the back. “And good luck.”
“To you as well,” I said, meaning it; though I had full faith in their ability to survive and escape, if any men alive could do it. “Bonne chance,” I added, as they moved away down the alley.
“Yeah,” Houston’s voice drifted back through the darkness; and then, with a sardonic chuckle: “Vive l’Empereur. . . .”
The Scuttling or, Down by the Sea with Marvin and Pamela
The Bradshaws got back from their vacation late Friday evening and discovered right away that they were not alone.
Marvin Bradshaw was coming up the front walk, having gone across the road to pick up their accumulated mail from the neighbors, when he heard his wife scream. He ran up the stairs and into the house, cursing and wishing he had tried a little harder to get that pistol permit; but there were no intruders to be seen, only his wife standing white-faced and trembling in the kitchen, pointing in the direction of the sink. “Look,” she said.
He looked, wondering what he was supposed to see. Everything was as he remembered, but then he had never given much attention to the kitchen area, which after all wasn’t his department. He said, “What?” and then he saw something small and dark moving rapidly along the sink’s rim. Now he saw another one, slightly larger, going up the wall behind the faucets.
“Son of a bitch,” Marvin Bradshaw said. “Cockroaches.”
“I came in here to get a drink of water.” Pamela Bradshaw’s voice was almost a whisper, as if that one scream had used up all her volume reserves. “I turned on the light and Marvin, they were everywhere. They went running in all directions.” She shuddered. “I think one ran over my foot.”
Marvin Bradshaw stepped toward the sink, but the cockroaches were too fast for him. The one on the sink dived off into space, hit the floor, and slipped into a barely visible crack beneath the baseboard. The one on the wall evaded Marvin’s slapping hand and disappeared into the cupboard space above the sink. Marvin swore in frustration, but he felt a little relieved too; he hadn’t really been eager to crush a cockroach with his bare hand.
“Cockroaches,” he said. “Wonderful. Bust your ass for years, finally get out of the city, away from the dirt and the coloreds, into a three-quarter-mil house on one of the best pieces of ocean-front property on Long Island. And then you go away for a couple weeks, and when you get home you got cockroaches. Jesus.”
He glared at his wife. “You know who’s responsible, don’t you? You had to go hire that God-damned Mexican maid.”
“Inez is Guatemalan,” Pamela protested. “And we don’t know—”
“Mexican, Guatemalan, who gives a fuck?” Marvin had never seen the point of these picky-ass distinctions between people who said sí when they meant yes. Maybe you needed to know the difference between Japs and Chinamen and other slopes, since nowadays you had to do business with the yellow assholes; but spics were spics, whatever hell-hole country they came from.
