in his eyes. He cried not so much from leaving me as for having to trade the excitement of tramping soldiers for the company of women. I presented him with a miniature drum, and he rattled it mournfully as Pasques boarded the coach to escort my family out of camp. Harry had the instincts of an adventurer, and I was pleased and appalled that at age four he was taking after his father.
Lingering in the Boulogne camp, I consulted with Duhèsme on skirmish tactics and had fun with an antique crossbow he conjured, “So you can play Red Indian.” I decided it could theoretically work from ambush to slay an enemy scout silently, but was otherwise too cumbersome, slow, and short-ranged. David’s sling could still slay Goliath, too, but I wouldn’t equip a regiment with that weapon.
I also toured the shipyards. Napoleon said crossing the Channel was but a jump, and yet without naval superiority the task was impossible. Even if the French controlled the water for a week or two, they had to transport not only a huge army, but all its powder, shot, food, and horses. England’s beaches were fronted by shoals, fringed by cliffs, and pounded by waves, and reports came back that its government had enlisted tens of thousands of militia to defend its shores. British authorities were constructing a string of Martello towers to give warning, and laid plans to drive away all the livestock and burn all grain.
French generals were confident of the outcome of any battle, but skeptical of the chances of getting one. La Manche might be tantalizingly narrow, but it was still a tide-wracked, stormy moat.
The soldiers were drilled incessantly to avoid boredom, and found the usual ways of amusing themselves between marches. Besides making visits to tent brothels and gambling dens, they scavenged for food, forcing Bonaparte to distribute a steady stream of gold to complaining farmers. His troops also did their best to seduce farmers’ daughters, dueled illegally in copses of trees, and had rowdy rowing competitions in which the chief object was hurling buckets of water at one another.
The troops were frequently entertained by troupes of actors imported from the Comédie-Francaise. The men also put on their own productions, playing female parts as well as male. At frequent dances, the soldiers took turns in the woman’s role, a handkerchief tied to their heads identifying them as “ladies.”
Their most popular game was loto, a simple contest of matching announced numbers on a card that even near illiterates could play. Bouts were made more competitive by giving each number a colorful name such as “the little chicken” for number two and “the gallows” for number seven, all the way up to eighty-nine. Players with faulty memory who called out the wrong name were penalized with great hilarity.
Regiments formed choirs and bands that sang and played in noisy competition. The faithful marched to the local fisherman’s chapels on Sunday. While some soldiers plagued civilians, others repaired churches, schools, and roads. England’s small army was a criminal depository kept in line with the lash. France’s conscripted force boasted educated men of the middle class. Officers had chess clubs, philosophic societies, and astronomy lectures. There is always more song and laughter in French camps than English or Prussian ones.
I enjoy this masculine company but periodically sought solitude. I was flattered one day while out on a picnic and saw a young redheaded woman on a horse picking her way toward me on a bluff trail overlooking the Channel. I was seated with bread and cheese and guessed even at a quarter mile that the approaching rider was pretty.
She rode to me and reined up: a Norman fille with hair like flame, a dusting of freckles, and a saucy look. She wore riding boots, gloves, and had a small pistol tucked in her waistband.
I stood. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
“Good King Louis,” she replied in English.
I was startled, accustomed as I was to speaking French. Then I remembered the password on the beach where we landed. “By the grace of God may he reign.” An English spy?
She slid from her horse and reverted to French. “My name is Rose, monsieur, and I’ve deliberately followed you here.”
“Mademoiselle, it’s dangerous to talk to me.”
“Yes, the famed Ethan Gage, collaborator with generals and emperors. I’ve been admiring your ability to insert yourself into high places. No one understands how you do it.”
“It would be more correct to say I’m inserted, sometimes against my will. They think me useful.” Sometimes modesty