Bubble in the Bathtub (17 page)

“A battle?” Nilly asked, confused. “Which battle?

“The British army is waiting on the other side of the road, Generator. Aren't you anxious to get going?”

“Very anxious,” Nilly said with a gulp.

“Well, let's get going then. We're ready.”

“Exactly who do you mean by ‘we'?” Nilly asked, wondering if he shouldn't just jump into the tub. This guy sure wasn't backing down.

“You, me, your horse and …” He pulled the tent flap to the side. “… about seventy thousand men.”

Nilly stared, his mouth hanging open. Sure enough, in the early dawn light outside the tent, he saw a magnificent white horse all saddled up. But that's not what made Nilly's mouth hang open. Behind the horse, as far as the eye could see, soldiers in blue uniform jackets with rifles and bayonets were lined up at attention.

Marshal Grouchy stepped through the tent opening.

“Greet your Generator, men!” he shouted.

The response was the synchronized roar of seventy thousand men that reverberated out over the plain:
“Vive Napoléon! Vive la France!”

Nilly looked down at the soap bubbles just below him. He could still make it.

“Are you ready to die for your Generator, men?” Grouchy shouted.

“Oui!”
the soldiers yelled.

Nilly was just bending his knees in preparation for the jump when a thought popped into one half of his brain. Something Juliette had said, that you only get one chance to change history.
So what?
the other half of his brain said.
Get out of here while you can!
Nilly got ready to dive into the bathtub. That is, he was certain that he had curled up in preparation for his cannonball, but when he looked down, he was still standing on the edge. He couldn't do it. He just simply couldn't do it. So he sighed, hopped down from the edge of the bathtub, stuck his saber back into its scabbard, and emerged from the tent.

A soldier was waiting and whisked him up into his saddle on the white horse. Unfortunately, during this maneuver the saber ended up between Nilly's legs when he came down, and it hurt so much he had to
take calm, deep breaths several times to keep from screaming out loud. Once he had managed to blink the tears of pain out of his eyes, he noticed the army of seventy thousand soldiers staring at him. That makes a hundred and forty thousand eyes. Minus the ones that had lost one or both eyes in battles in Russia or Prussia, of course. But all the two-eyed, one-eyed, and zero-eyed soldiers had one thing in common. They were all looking very stiff and rigid, with their stomachs sucked in and their shoulders sort of back.

“At ease,” Nilly yelled.

Seventy thousand men all exhaled at the same time, relaxed their shoulders, and leaned on their rifles.

Hm,
Nilly thought.
Fascinating. I wonder what would happen if I …

“Smile!” Nilly yelled.

Seventy thousand slightly confused smiles appeared before him.

“Jump!” Nilly yelled.

Seventy thousand men jumped, and the ground shook when they landed.

From where Nilly sat, his hand still holding the jar of time soap inside his jacket, he had to admit that this felt pretty cool. Yes, he felt like he could easily get used to being in charge of seventy thousand men this way. Especially if he could have some breakfast first.

A horse came up alongside him, carrying Marshal Grouchy.

“Your hat, Sire …,” the marshal whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Yes?” Nilly said.

“It's on backward.”

“Backward?”

“The point is supposed to go in the front, Generator. It looks a little … well, silly this way.”

“Pshaw,” Nilly said. “If I can decide that I should be addressed as emperor and make seventy thousand men jump, I think I ought to be able to decide
which way I wear my hat. Don't you, Grouchy?”

The skin on Marshal Emmanuel de Grouchy's face went pale and looked as if it were being stretched.

“Don't you?” Nilly repeated, louder.

“Uh, yes, Generator, Sire,” Grouchy said with a bow, but Nilly could see the man's jaw muscles clenching with rage. “Perhaps you should give the troops a little inspiration before the battle.”

“I will,” Nilly said, and turned toward his army. He took a deep breath and let his voice reverberate through the quiet morning: “My dear courageous and loyal men!”

“Oui!”
the soldiers cheered.

“We have been fighting for a long time!” Nilly yelled.

“Oui!”
the soldiers cheered.

“Way too long, some may think.”

“Oui!”
the soldiers cheered, but some of them gave each other questioning looks.

“Many of us haven't even had breakfast!” Nilly yelled.

The men said,
“Oui,”
but less enthusiastically this time, and a soft murmur was sweeping through the throng of soldiers. Out of the corner of his eye Nilly saw Marshal Grouchy's horse move closer.

“And what have we actually been fighting and dying
for?” Nilly yelled. “Well, for me, a rather puny Generator, so that I could have a little more land to rule over!”

A few men shouted,
“Oui!”
while the others watched him in silence.

“Why is it so honorable to die for an emperor and a fatherland when all the emperor and the fatherland want is for you to help them out, and never the other way around?”

Grouchy's voice hissed softly at Nilly's side: “What do you think you're doing, you fool! You're ruining everything!”

But Nilly just kept going: “Here we are in a teeny tiny country that in a few years will be called Belgium. It's not going to belong to the French or the English but to some peaceful farmers who will govern themselves, elect a prime minister every now and then, and make French fries and compete in bike races. So what's the point to all this shooting, shooting at soldiers who are fighting on behalf of other stupid kings who think it's
fun to amass as much land as possible, but don't really care if their subjects are happy or have anything to eat for breakfast?”

Aside from Nilly's voice and a cricket scratching an itch on its leg, there was total silence in the fields of Waterloo.

“I have a suggestion!” Nilly yelled. “And that's that we all go home now and eat breakfast!”

“Oui!”
one single soldier shouted somewhere in the middle of the plain.

“You're crazy!” Grouchy hissed, pulling the reins tight as his horse reared. “I'm relieving you of your command, Generator!”

“I suggest,” Nilly yelled at the confused soldiers. “I mean, I'm not giving this as an order, but I suggest the following. Put down your rifles, march home, give your wives and children a good hug, and don't smoke in bed!”

“Oui!”
a few more men shouted.

“Exercise!” Nilly bellowed. “Vote in free elections and wear your seat belts!”

“Oui!”
even more men shouted.

“And don't be afraid that the people back home will call us cowards,” Nilly yelled. “Marshal Grouchy here has promised me that he will tell the royal court in Paris that we fought like the idiots we are, but had to concede to superior forces!”

Grouchy's horse was rearing so wildly that the frightened marshal slid right off and landed on his bottom on the ground.

“So, what do you say?” Nilly bellowed. “Should we all just go HOME?”

This time the answer was so loud and in unison that the sky over Waterloo practically caved in, and the English on the other side of the road thought the French had fired off their first cannon salvo. Or their
second, since they had shot that weird little man over earlier wearing just a nightshirt, a man so crazy he claimed he was Napoléon!

“OUI!”
the French soldiers cheered.
“OUI!”

“All right!” Nilly yelled. “But no one tell anyone what actually happened here in Waterloo. Agreed?”

“OUI!”
the approximately seventy thousand soldiers yelled back.

“March home!” Nilly yelled and as he turned his horse around, he heard the rifles hitting the ground behind him. But in front of him he saw Marshal Emmanuel de Grouchy.

“Just what do you think you're doing?” growled the marshal, rubbing his tailbone. “Are you
canceling
the Battle of Waterloo?”

“So what if I am?” Nilly said with a yawn. “So sue me.”

“Sue you? I'll court-martial you!” Grouchy was so angry that his eyeballs were quivering.

“Fine,” Nilly said, sliding down out of his saddle. “After my morning bath.”

He hurried into the tent, but had just managed to get one foot up onto the edge of the tub when he felt something very sharp poke him in the back. He turned around and found himself face to face with Grouchy, who was holding a rapier. Nilly cursed because he saw that the tip of the deadly blade was pointing right between his eyes, just a few millimeters from his forehead.

“Tell me,” Grouchy said. “
Are
you really Napoléon? Take that thing off your nose so I can see.”

“Ten hut!” Nilly commanded. “Jump!”

But his brisk orders didn't seem to have any effect on the marshal.

“Guards!” Grouchy hollered without taking his eyes off Nilly. “Guards, get in here now!”

“Did someone call?” Handlebar and Fu Manchu entered the tent and stood behind Grouchy.

“Arrest this imposter!” the marshal screamed. “Tie him up and roast him over a low heat until he admits that he's an English spy. Then we'll hang him from the nearest tree.”

“All right,” Handlebar sighed. “Man, nothing but work, work, work.”

“And what's the point to roasting him first?” sighed Fu Manchu. “Why not just hang him right away? We haven't had breakfast yet.”

“Snap to it!” Grouchy howled.

“Yes, sir, Marshal.” They sighed and started toward Nilly.

“Wait!” Nilly said. “The marshal is the one who should be bound.”

“Interesting,” Handlebar said, stopping in his tracks. “And what else?”

“Tickle the bottoms of his feet with bird feathers until he promises to be a little nicer. And then send him home to his mother with a note.”

“Tie him up immediately!” Grouchy growled. “Otherwise I'll hang you, too!”

“Oh, you will, will you?” Handlebar asked, swinging his rifle slightly so that it happened to be pointing right at the marshal.

Grouchy paled. “Listen up, my good men,” he said. “I will promote you to lieutenants if you do as I say. Think about that: officers of the French army. And in addition, I will agree to
not
hang you. What do you say?”

Handlebar and Fu Manchu looked at each other. Then at the marshal. And finally at Nilly.

“What do you say, Generator? Do you have a better offer?”

“Yeah,” Nilly said, scratching inside his ear with his left index finger. “Breakfast. Fresh-baked bread with strawberry jam.”

“Fresh-baked bread,” Handlebar repeated, looking at Fu Manchu.

“Strawberry jam?” Fu Manchu repeated, looking at Handlebar.

“Listen up, my good men …,” Grouchy said. But that was also all he had time to say, because the next instant he had a holey right sock stuffed in his mouth, and after quite a bit of tying, he, too, had been transformed into a corncob.

“Take him out and tickle him,” Nilly said, and started unbuttoning his uniform. “And it would be great if you guys could hang a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, because I'm going to take my morning bath now.”

THE ENGLISH AND the Duke of Wellington encountered no opposition that day at Waterloo. They just marched right into the Frenchmen's deserted camp. There they found countless abandoned rifles and cannons as well as a dungeon containing a half-crazed woman with a wooden leg and a long, black trench coat, plus a tent with a sign on it that said
DO NOT DISTURB
in French. The Englishmen, who are a very polite people, would not normally have ignored this kind of message, but since they couldn't read French, they walked right into the tent. But all they found there was a bathtub where the last of the soap bubbles were just disappearing.

“This is embarrassing!” the Duke of Wellington told his officers, angrily kicking the bathtub. “And here I was, looking forward to being a hero with huge casualty figures on both sides. And then we win without firing so much as a single shot!”

One of Wellington's officers whispered something into his ear.

“Jolly good!” Wellington exclaimed. “I've just had an idea! Listen, when we get home, we'll tell the royal court that we fought valiantly and trounced these Frenchmen. We'll say that it was the biggest battle ever! And that strange little Frenchman in the nightshirt who fell out of the sky and thinks he's Napoléon, we'll
say he
is
Napoléon!” The duke laughed loudly. “And then we'll ship him off to a remote island so he can't expose our deception should he ever regain his senses!” The duke leaned over to his officers in a conspiratorial manner and whispered: “And no one tell anyone what actually happened here in Waterloo. Agreed?”