Waterloo

NOTE: All neighing, whinnying, and braying had been dutifully rendered into English and French by the writer of this story, who had been acquainted with the following events by way of an animal medium who had advertised herself on Facebook, which is hard to believe but not quite as hard not to, and by way of a military historian, who had helped to add context to these eventful visions. The writer wishes to thank the twain for their assistance in preventing the passage of yet another failing mark for this particular assignment.

___

“Je vous demande pardon, Monsieur.”

“Yes?”

“Eh… Mais qui êtes-vous?”

“Who am I? Well, I am but a loyal Mount who hath Died serving thine Master in the War.”

“La Guerre? De quoi parlez-vous, camarade destrier?”

“The War, comrade Steed… I am referring to the War in which our Stolid Paths have inevitably Crossed a Long time Ago. Have thee Forgotten all about what had happened Before the White Light that hath Come?”

“Ah oui, La Guerre... J'ai en effet oublié... S'il te plaît, dis-moi plus.”

“Oh dear, how Rude of Me! I hath Forgotten to make Introduction.”

“J'ai oublié de faire l'introduction, aussi... S'il te plaît, commence.”

“Don’t mind if I do… Copenhagen, at your service, comrade steed.” 

“Monsieur? Monsieur Copenhagen?”

“Yes, indeed, comrade Steed – none Other! Part Thoroughbred and part Arabian, I am – named in Honor of the British victory at the second Battle of Copenhagen… And Thee are?”

“Mon frere? Have you truly forgotten who I am?” 

“Oh, no… That could not be… Wait… Thy Phiz… Thy Illustrious white Hide… I am Remembering now… A–a–are Thee… Do thine Eyes truly deceive me?” 

“Non, ils ne le font pas, for it is I! And my phiz doth remain the same as before.”

“Marengo, comrade Steed… it is Thee! It hath been Ages since I have last seen You!”

“Indeed so… And, eh, may I ask where we are, Monsieur Copenhagen? I have no memory of which to gauge upon this mysterious place.”

“Alas, I could not remember as much as thee, Marengo, but I Believe that we have Made it through the Clouds in which We have Stared at over our Heads for as Old as Time.”

“You mean to say, Monsieur Copenhagen, that we have arrived… in Le Paradis?”

“Indeed so, Marengo… Le Paradis… Paradise… Heaven… Whatever thee Wish to call it, We have Arrived at exactly the right Place.”

[Marengo clicks his hooves together] “Ah, sacrableu! So this is it, eh? The auspicious domain of Mon Dieu?

“It would be So, Marengo.”

“Hmm… I find it most strange – most strange, indeed… To be dreadfully honest, mon frere, I thought that only humans with hearts of gold were allowed refuge in Le Paradis. I must have been mistaken all these years.”

“If us Animals – according to Thy Holiness, that is – have Obeyed and Treated our Masters well in the Land of the Living, then We have earned the Right to be Here.”

“How are we so sure?”

“So sure about What?”

“How are we so sure that we have been – to borrow the term that you have used, mon frere – Good? In our past lives, no less? How are we so sure that we have led lives that are Good? Lives that are Bon? I mean, I forget, Monsieur Copenhagen of the other details of who I am, I forget what they are… How do I know that I have led a life that was Bon? How do you know that you have led a life that was Bon? Somebody has to remember my Like, your Like in the past… There has to be somebody –”

“Well, Speak of the Dev – [Copenhagen clears his throat]

“Rather, uh, I Mean to Say, here cometh St. Peter! Maybe he knows the Answers to our Niggling Questions... Would he pay Mind at all to our Sudden Interrogation?”

“We have to try, mon frere.”

“Be it So…”

[Copenhagen clears his throat and proceeds to scream towards the distance]

“JOLLY GOOD DAY TO THEE, ST. PETER… MR. PETER… SIRE… IF THOU DO NOT MIND… IF THOU DO NOT MIND AT ALL, MARENGO AND I HAVE A FEW QUESTIONS FOR THOU… WOULD THAT BE ALRIGHT?”

[Pardon? Sorry, come again, please?]

“WE HAVE A FEW QUESTIONS THAT WE WOULD VERY MUCH LIKE THE ANSWERS TO… WOULD THAT BE ALRIGHT?”

[Uh… Yes?... Yes, that would be quite alright…]

“DO PARDON OUR UNWARRANTED INTRUSION, HOLY ONE, WISE ONE… FOR WE ARE BUT LOST EQUINE SOULS AND WE ONLY WISH FOR YOUR GUIDANCE –”

[No, don’t be… Please, it’s quite alright… Do follow me, right this way.]

[Marengo and Copenhagen follow St. Peter further into the clouds – into a near-empty park full of white walls and white benches]

“Shall either of you fine horses want to rest your weary bones?”

“Thankee, Holy One, but its best if we keep on our four feet. It is quite Alright. We’d rather thou Sit down, not Us, for we fear that if we do, these Benches might Break in Twain.”

“I would have to agree with Monsieur Copenhagen here, Saint Pierre…”

“If that is what the twain desire, then I see no other fault.”

[St. Peter sits down in one of the white benches while Marengo and Copenhagen remain as they are on the clouds]

“Well, steeds… What do you wish to know? Life? The universe? Well…?”

“Everything that there Is to Know, Sire… We have to know Everything that there is to Know, for We could not stand not Knowing what We do not Know.”

“Uh… what Monsieur Copenhagen had said just now, Saint Pierre.”

“So… Everything, eh?”

[Both equines agree]

“Well then… we shall have to start with who your Masters are and how each of you have Passed. Would that be alright?”

“I suppose we could start there, Sire.”

“Oui, Saint Pierre… though, eh, I am not sure why I nor mon frere would want to know how we have Passed.”

[The three ethereal beings laugh like tea kettles amongst themselves]

“Right then… Copenhagen will be the first to know of his Fate.”

[The twain wait for St. Peter to continue]

“Copenhagen… your Master is the Duke of Wellington… Do you remember?”

“I Gather… ah, Yes… I do Remember Him – He was a Good Master... Tell Me, St. Peter, what has Become of Him?”

“I’m afraid… that he is not here.”

“My Master? Not in Heaven?”

[St. Peter nods gravely]

“How could that Be?”

[St. Peter sighs] “Well, the Duke was – for all intents and purposes – an arrogant ass.”

[Marengo tries to suppress his neighing laughter]

[Copenhagen glares at him and Marengo looks down in embarrassment]

“In what Way, Perhaps, Holy One?”

“In a lot of ways, fair steed. But I do know this (from Him). The Duke had looked down upon those who were lesser than him. And the Duke had also been busy screwing other women that were not his wife Kitty… But what a waste! What a waste, indeed… He was a good soldier who had won many a ruthless battle, a practical man, someone who did not mince his words… He showed heart, but he threw it all away for a life that was all but Holy.”

“That is… Fair Enough.”

“Right then, and of the nature your Passing…”

“Yes, Sire. What then… of my Passing?”

“There have been rumors about the exact nature of your passing.”

“And what Rumors might These have Been, Sire? About my Passing?”

“Well, uh, for one thing, you had quite the reputation back in the day.”

“What kind of Reputation would That have been, Holy One?”

“Sugary dainties, perchance?”

“Sugary dainties, you say?... Ah, I Remember.”

“You had quite the sweet tooth.”

“Hon, hon, hon, hon! Mon frere hath died from eating too many crèmes au chocolat and petits pains de bain and gateaux éponge! Hon, hon, hon, hon!”

“Hmpf! Some blasted Rumors they Were.”

“But – and this is a big but – you’ll be happy to know that you have Passed because of old age – buried with full military honors!”

[The three ethereal beings laugh amongst themselves again]

“At least it was Not an unholy Stomachache!”

“Ah, oui, oui! A stomachache would be most unholy, indeed!”

“You cannot go Wrong with Sugary Dainties, Marengo – they are a Heavenly Delight.”

“The Duke received your death quite dramatically, too, I should think to add… You can imagine how that happened.”

“I see… though I seem to Recall the Hooves Incident. Ha–ha!”

“Right then! Marengo is the next to learn of his Fate.”

“Oui, Saint Pierre! What of my Master?”

“Marengo… you have been under the care of the infamous Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“I see… Ah, merci Saint Pierre, but you don’t need to tell me – I know he will not be here.”

“After what he had done? You are most certainly correct in your assumptions, fair steed, but I have to say that he was – how best to put this – a complicated man… He was an enabler, an instigator, one who had seized windows of opportunity at the cost of millions of lives… But for all the evil he had done, he was as equally loved a figure as any… He sued for peace, gave his fellowmen the right to education, and implemented various liberal and social reforms (The Napoleonic Code) enacted – to this day – all over the world… Ah, but the world – unfortunate of me to say – was not completely moved by a man of his stature.”

“Ah, sacrableu.”

[Copenhagen bows his head in solemn earnest]

“And of your passing…”

“Oui, Saint Pierre?”

“Hmm… Old age, as well.”

“Eh… that was anti-climactic.”

“You tell Me, comrade steed. I had been expecting Cannon Fire or Rifle Wounds or some other Happening… but this is – I have to say – a merciful Passing.”

“You have been wounded, Marengo – eight times throughout your service in total – but suffice to say, you have remained a hardy and undefeated war horse until the day you have expelled your last breath.”

“That is Bon, Saint Pierre.”

“Very Bon Indeed!”

“You have been captured in the War by a certain William Petre – the 11th Baron Petre – and then shipped off to the United Kingdom and sold to a Lieutenant-Colonel Angerstein of the Grenadier Guards.”

“That I can still recall with clarity.”

“And your skeletal frame (minus two hooves)… it is now housed inside a large vitrine at the National Army Museum in London.”

“How Awful!”

“Eh! A million sacrableus to that! I’m dead, mon frere, and that’s that!”

“Ha–ha! Right you are… And St. Peter? What then… of mine Body?”

“Right, I almost forgot… The Duke was once asked to disinter your corpse and have it exhibited alongside Marengo at the museum, but he refused. Said that he forgot where you were buried (which is, of course, as guilty a lie as any).”

“Hon–hon–hon!”

“Attachment issues, he had, my Master – That is very much like Him.”

[Lingering silence]

“But Holy One… what about this War? This War that hath been Hanging over our Heads…? I remember it, true Enough, but I hath no Idea of it… It is – for lack of a better word – Strange. This predicament that I am In, it is Strange, Holy One.”

“Oui, Saint Pierre. I, too, seem to be forgetting this War… I, too, remember being in the thick of it, but for some reason, I could not… I could not remember my Like, his Like, anyone’s Like and what the fates of our Masters had been.”

[St. Peter composes himself] “So, the War, eh?”

[Both equines agree again, and St. Peter nods]

“This War… it happened a long time ago, in a Belgian town called Waterloo.”

[Both equines] “Waterloo?”

“Yes, fair steeds… Waterloo.”

“Tell us, Saint Pierre. What happened in Waterloo?”

“Ah… I fear that we haven’t the time to discuss Waterloo, fair steeds, for it is a battle that is both dreary and senseless in its bloodshed.”

“Holy One… Care we do Not, for We wish to hear of Waterloo anyway.”