Chapter One

THE BATTLE ON FROESCHWILLER RIDGE

Leda Morris’ day was going perfectly well until she lost Napoleon III.

The Emperor was most likely smoking in the boy’s bathroom or finding pictures of naked women in the library or hiding in the teacher’s lounge — an ominous, subterranean space that even the teachers avoided. But where he was not was the French-held town of Metz on the 40-yard line, preparing for a German attack.

One could argue that such behavior was entirely in character for Napoleon III, one of history’s most famous cowardly rats. But Leda wasn’t prepared to listen to such an argument; she was incensed by such foolish behavior from an Emperor whose grasp of a C- in ninth-grade history was tenuous at best.

Leda snatched up the megaphone at her feet. “Halt everybody! Halt! That means stop!” she shouted. “Hey, that means you too, Prince Frederick Charles!”

She threw the megaphone down and turned to a little weedy freshman with dirty glasses. “Hey, Troy,” she said. “Who are you?”

“General Douay.”

“Great. That means you’re dead, right? Get out there and be the Emperor.”

Troy quivered. “I don’t know what to do,” he whined.

“Go to Metz, stand behind Bazaine and shout useless orders, and than right before Frederick Charles cuts the road to Verdun,” — Leda waved a hand at a flag on the 30 — “Announce you’re raising a new army in Chalons and run back to me like a scared rabbit. Got it?”

Troy nodded and ran off. Leda picked up her megaphone.

“That’s Berlin, Troy! Metz is that way!”

The new Emperor changed course, and Leda looked at the field of battle with satisfaction. There was Frederick Charles ready to cut off the French army’s retreat from Metz, and there was General Francois Achille Bazaine — trying on a new lipstick and reading a new issue of Allure, true, but in position. Ten students were milling confusedly around her with no idea what to do, but that was fine, that was a perfect reenactment of the French Army. And there was Moltke with another megaphone, getting ready to order the Germans to attack.

“Miss Morris?” asked a small voice.

“What?” she snapped. Another little freshman in thick glasses was standing beside her. Another one? Did Troy arrange for backup here?

“Pri-Principal Seymour wants you to answer your cell phone,” the little kid said.

“What?” Leda asked again. Winslow High School Principal Tom Seymour was a famous micromanager, but this was taking it a little far. “I’ll answer it when I’m ready.”

“He-he says to answer it now. It’s Chief Bronson.”

“Hey!” Leda shouted through her megaphone. “Frederick Charles, what are you doing?”

Frederick Charles ran over, the ribbons on her pigtails flapping. “If I go straight, I’ll run right into the other German army.”

“Exactly! That was Frederick’s favorite thing to do! Now get back there!” Leda yelled. The German general ran back, shaking her head, pink ribbons bouncing.

“Take five!” Leda shouted through her megaphone. There was a general groan as 40 high school freshman collapsed on the football field. She quickly dialed up her cell phone’s last missed call.

“Chief Bronson,” said a crisp voice.

“Hello, sir," Leda said. "I'm sorry I missed your call, but I’m in the middle of the Franco-Prussian War here —”

“I need you to come to the Courthouse Museum,” Bronson said. “I’m sending a squad car.”

“I'd really like to Chief, but football practice starts at two, and the French have to attempt the breakout from Metz today so we can fight the Battle of Sedan on Friday —

If Bronson thought her response was strange, his voice gave no sign. “You have five minutes,” he said calmly and hung up.

“Damn,” Leda muttered and threw the phone at the freshman. “Take position!” she shouted through the megaphone. “Bazaine, get the heck out of Metz!”

Bazaine and his students ran toward the 30-yard line in a confused mass, leaving behind stragglers every few yards as students tripped or dropped books or stopped to talk to friends. Leda didn’t mind that – that was only to be expected and perfectly historically accurate as well.

“Frederick Charles! Attack!” shouted Moltke from his megaphone.

Another mass of students started wacking the French army with empty wrapping-paper tubes. The attacked students screeched as if they were truly being run through with sabers and ran back to the Metz flag, which was absolutely right.

“The road to Verdun is almost cut off!” Leda shouted.

Emperor Napoleon III raced out of Metz toward Paris (beside the left-hand goal post), but then another student cut him off and tackled him at the 10-yard line.

“Hey!” Leda shouted. “Football practice doesn’t start for another 10 minutes!” She ran over.

The Emperor lay on the ground, his glasses on the field. Standing over him was the original Napoleon III, dressed in his No. 13 Winslow Terriers football jersey. His breath smelled suspiciously of cigarettes. “You said I could be the Emperor!” the bigger student said.

“Well, you weren’t here,” Leda answered. “And if I catch you abandoning your post again, Griffin, I’ll have you lead a calvary uphill against rifle-bearing infantry and let me tell you, these guys did that a lot —“

“Miss Morris!”

Leda turned aorund. Principal Seymour stood there, scowling, with a uniformed cop beside him.

“Miss Morris, I have taken frequent issue with your behavior,” Seymour said, “and I cannot be surprised that the police have finally come to arrest you —“

“I’m not arresting her,” said the cop. He had a round, red face and a stomach that strained the buttons of his uniform.

“Of course you are,” Seymour said.

The cop shook his head. “No, Chief Bronson requires her expert consultation.”

“At the Courthouse Museum?” Leda asked.

“There’s been an … incident,” the cop said, looking around nervously. “Miss Morris, I don’t want to arrest you, but Chief Bronson said to bring you — with handcuffs or without.”

Seymour’s eyes gleamed at the mere mention of handcuffs, so Leda sighed and handed the megaphone to the principal.

“Students!” Seymour shouted through the megaphone. “Prepare to return to your classroom at once!”

General groaning ensued on the field. Students picked up their scattered flags, books and broken wrapping-paper tubes with long suffering looks. Leda received her purse from another helpful little four-eyed freshman and trudged after the police officer.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed your … um … class, Miss Morris,” the cop said, puffing with exertion already.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why would you guys need my advice?” Although if the police chief really wanted her opinions, Leda thought, she’d start with physical fitness requirements for all officers.

The cop opened the door of the squad car for her, then slipped behind the wheel. His sweating face looked anxious. “I’m not supposed to tell you anything, but …” He looked around as if two reporters and an OSS spy were crouched in the back seat.

“We found Fred Stark in the Courthouse Museum,” he whispered.

“Shocking,” Leda answered. “A museum curator is actually found in his museum. Stop the presses.”

“The problem isn’t that he’s there,” the cop continued hoarsely. “The problem is that he’s dead.”