To Liberty! the Adventures of Thomas-Alexandre Dumas by Catherine Johnson

Author:Catherine Johnson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2020-09-02T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

1786, Laon, Northern France

Father had been right about one thing: the army thought we were disposable. The Queen’s Dragoons were looked down upon, by the King’s Own Dragoons especially, but by everyone else as well. We were a light cavalry unit, and in wartime we did the dirty jobs: taking out snipers, defusing traps, holding bridges until the regular troops could come through, and so on. In peacetime they used us against smugglers, against highwaymen.

But no amount of scorn from other regiments could make me regret my choice. At least they wore it on their sleeve! I felt alive for the first time in years and I made the best friends, not least Jacques Piston, the man who’d pushed ahead of me in the queue.

There was a camaraderie between us Dragoons that I had never felt with the other spoilt gentlemen’s sons at the academy. We trained hard with our horses, and our guns. Louis Espagne called me “cowboy” after I galloped down after a band of smugglers, reins in my teeth, guns in both hands. I felt like that fourteen-year-old boy, galloping on the beach back home in Saint-Domingue, again.

Jacques had the measure of me. We were in an inn one evening, close to the barracks. I had rounded up a gang of salt smugglers and the wine was flowing.

“Our Dumas is a show-off!” he said, lifting his glass. “To Alex, the hero of the Dragoons!”

I did not argue. As I looked around at my new friends I thought they were more than simply mates or comrades. “To our new family!” I lifted my glass.

Louis cheered and filled the glasses again. “Another toast!” he said. “You think of one, Alex, you’re better at this lark.”

I stood up and thought a second, then raised my glass high. “All for one!” I said. “And one for all!” The inn resounded with all our cheers.

Suddenly the celebration stopped. A party of the King’s Own regiment, our sworn enemies, had entered by another door. They looked at us as if we were no more than the turd on their boots. One swept off his hat and put it down on the bar, and he sneered at us as he ordered his drink.

“I see the queen doesn’t care if Americans fight for her honour.”

Jacques stood up. “He isn’t American! He’s as French as the rest of us!”

No lie, but I felt a prickle in my throat. I sat still for a moment. The king’s men jeered.

“Can’t the gorilla speak? Or is his head as empty as any one of your queen’s men?”

I stood up, pushing the table away. “No one speaks to any one of us like that!”

The king’s man at the bar sneered. “You talk like a posh boy but you look like a gorilla! Do they duel in the trees?”

I glared at my tormentor. He was almost as tall as me, and strong about the shoulders. He might have been a boxer for all I knew, but I reckoned my years with the Chevalier had done me good.

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