The Fields of Death

Berthier glanced anxiously at his Emperor. ‘Sire, it seems that they have broken.’

‘Nonsense!’

And yet still they came, running back towards the rest of their division. Napoleon felt his temper rise at the sight of such mass indiscipline and cowardice.‘Why doesn’t somebody rally those bastards? Before they disrupt the rest of the corps.’ Napoleon craned his neck towards the cluster of standards that marked the position of Prince Eugиne and his staff. ‘For God’s sake do something!’

The remnants of MacDonald’s division emerged from Wagram, closely pursued by the jubilant Austrians, who shot down the fleeing Italians, or bayoneted them on the ground, without a shred of mercy. Mad with fear, the Italians raced towards the safety of their steadier comrades, pushing aside the leading ranks and breaking up the formation. Berthier nodded towards the scattered figures fanning out as they fled from Wagram.

‘They’re coming this way, sire. We should order the Guard to open ranks and let them through.’

‘No,’ Napoleon said firmly.‘We cannot afford to let that rabble throw the Guard into chaos. Order the men to fix bayonets.’

‘Sire?’

‘Do it!’ Napoleon snapped. ‘At once.’

‘Yes, sire.’

As the command was relayed through the battalions of the Old Guard standing in the front rank, the long triangular spikes of steel rasped from their sheaths and clattered into the locked position over the musket muzzles. Napoleon and his officers retired behind the leading battalion and watched as the sergeants gave the order to advance bayonets. A wall of lethal points was presented to the Italians fleeing towards the Guard. At the sight of the threat, and the cold and contemptuous expressions on the faces of the veterans, they turned aside and ran for the gaps between the French units. As the last men of MacDonald’s division hurried by, the pursuing Austrians drew up at the sight of fresh enemy units.

With parade-ground precision the Imperial Guard unleashed several volleys that cut the leading enemy wave to shreds. A handful of gallant Austrian officers attempted to rally their men and re-form their ranks to return fire, but they were swiftly struck down and lay with the rest of their men in heaps scattered across the bloody ground. The Austrian soldiers began to fall back, and soon they were running to the shelter of the houses on the edge of Wagram. In the failing light those French battalions that had been disrupted by the men of MacDonald’s division had re-formed, and stood ready to advance once again.

‘Shall I order Prince Eugиne to counter-attack?’ asked Berthier.

Napoleon shook his head. ‘It’s too late. It will be dark within half an hour.’ He puffed his cheeks in frustration. ‘Call off the attack. Order all formations to fall back and make camp for the night.’

Once the last of the fighting had died away and an uneasy quiet fell across the plain, Napoleon summoned his marshals to his headquarters to discuss his plans for the next day. First, however, the Emperor made a last visit to the bridges to ensure that the supply trains had begun to cross from Lobau island. The pontoon bridges sagged under the weight of the long, heavy artillery caissons, and the lines of wagons carrying ammunition for the men of the infantry and cavalry. The engineers had placed lanterns along the length of each bridge and the flickering glows undulated up and down as the vehicles passed by.

Satisfied that the men of the Grand Army would not be short of supplies for the next day, Napoleon returned to his field headquarters at the church. The cluster of staff officers and escorts that stood around the entrance revealed that his senior officers had already arrived. Dismounting, Napoleon handed the reins to a groom and hurriedly returned the salutes of the men on either side of the church doors before entering the building. The sound of voices came from the altar, and by the light of a handful of candles burning in brackets on the walls Napoleon saw his marshals gathered there. Marshal Bernadotte’s voice carried clearly over the subdued talk of the others.

‘I’m telling you, it was a wasted opportunity. The Emperor delayed his attack for too long, and he should not have attempted to attack along the whole line.’

‘Really?’ Davout responded drily. ‘And what would you have done in his place, I wonder?’

There was a pause and the other marshals stopped talking. Bernadotte cleared his throat and replied, ‘If I had been in command of the army, we would be celebrating a great victory at this moment. I would have used a special manoeuvre that would have defeated the enemy. I would have . . .’

Napoleon decided he had heard enough, and strode towards the altar. As the marshals stood to attention, he waved them down.‘No time for formalities, gentlemen. We have a battle to plan.’

Everyone clustered around the altar and Napoleon stared at the map before them as he gathered his thoughts. ‘We have every reason to be pleased with today’s achievements, my friends. The Grand Army’s crossing of the Danube caught our enemy by complete surprise. All that remains is for us to deliver the final blow and crush Archduke Charles.’

There was a brief silence before Davout cleared his throat and tapped the line of the Russbach river. ‘Sire, what is the latest intelligence of Archduke John’s position?’

‘Our cavalry patrols report no sign of him for twenty miles, south and east of here. He need not concern us.’

‘What if Archduke John does reach the battlefield, and attacks our flank?’

‘If, if, if.’ Napoleon frowned. ‘I told you, Archduke John does not concern us. He is not near enough to intervene.’

Davout nodded slightly. ‘If you say so, sire.’

Napoleon felt a slight giddiness as he struggled to contain his fraying temper. It had been some days since he had had a proper night’s sleep. He had been constantly awake for almost all that time, and his limbs were heavy. It took some effort to think clearly. He rubbed his eyes and then looked round at his officers. ‘Gentlemen, you may return to your commands. Berthier will issue your orders during the night.’

After the marshals had left the church Napoleon decided to move his headquarters closer to the decisive sector of the coming battle. Leaving Berthier to arrange for his staff to follow on, Napoleon mounted his horse and rode north of the village of Raasdorf to stop on a small knoll a short distance behind Massйna’s right flank. In the darkness, he could just make out the faint outline of columns of men massing in readiness for the coming attack. When the first battalion of the Old Guard arrived to secure the Emperor’s new command post, Napoleon had the drummers stack their instruments to make a shelter for him. Then, with a rolled greatcoat for a pillow, he lay down to snatch a few hours’ sleep.

Berthier gently shook his shoulder at three in the morning and Napoleon blinked his eyes open, his mind still vague with exhaustion. A guardsman holding a lantern stood behind Berthier.

‘What time is it?’

‘It’s past the third hour, sire.’

Napoleon eased himself up and then rose stiffly to his feet, pressing his fists into the small of the back as he stretched his spine. ‘Is the army in position?’

‘Yes, sire. All corps headquarters report that they will be ready to attack by four.’

Napoleon glanced round. Even though it was still dark he could make out the vague masses of men slowly forming their ranks. The cool night air was restless with their muted conversation and the shuffling tramp of their boots. He could feel their tense excitement at the prospect of the coming battle. There was some anxiety and fear there too: a certain edge in their voices. Napoleon turned back to Berthier and forced a smile.

‘All goes well. Our leading divisions will fall upon the enemy while they’re still eating their breakfast, eh?’

Berthier nodded, with a nervous chuckle. ‘Yes, sire.’

‘I wish I could see Archduke Charles’s face when he realises we have stolen a march on him a second time in as many days.’

Napoleon called for some bread and water and sat on a pile of firewood as the army continued to form up around him. Over to the east a faint glow presaged the coming dawn. Moment by moment Napoleon began to see more and more detail of the surrounding countryside, and the tens of thousands of men standing ready. He rose to his feet, brushing the crumbs from his jacket, and took out his watch.

‘Ten minutes to four,’ he muttered.

There was a sudden thud of cannon fire to the south-east and Napoleon and his staff officers turned to look.

‘That comes from the direction of Davout’s corps.’ Napoleon frowned. ‘What the devil is he up to? The orders were for the attack to begin at four. This is the work of some glory-hunter with an itchy trigger finger. Well, whoever it is, he’ll have to answer to me when the day is over.’ He turned abruptly to Berthier. ‘No point in waiting for four now. Send orders to all corps to begin the attack at once.’

‘Yes, sire.’

The distant cannon fire quickly swelled into a continuous rumble as the skirmish line began to filter forward towards the enemy. Then, with a deafening crash, the guns of Massйna’s corps opened fire on the Austrian centre, pounding the village of Aderklaa, a short distance from Wagram in the blue-hued light of the predawn. As the bombardment continued, Napoleon watched the officers of the leading infantry columns ride up and down their ranks, shouting encouragement to the men.

Berthier appeared at his side with a nervous expression.

‘What is it?’

‘Sire, a message from Davout. He is under attack.’

‘Under attack?’

‘Yes, sire. The enemy have fallen on his right flank. He is being driven back.’

‘No, Davout must be mistaken. It’s probably just a local counter-attack. Nothing more.’

‘His messenger says the Austrians are attacking in force, sire.’

‘Rubbish!’

Before Napoleon could give further vent to his anger, he was aware of a sudden increase in the sound of gunfire to his right. He turned to stare towards the flank, unable to comprehend the obvious at first. Then he smiled ruefully. ‘Who would have guessed it? Archduke Charles has finally learned to take the initiative.’ He turned to Berthier. ‘The enemy have got their attack in before us.’

Chapter 10

‘Tell all corps commanders to hold their positions, until I discover exactly what is going on.’ Napoleon listened again to the cannonade to his right and made another decision. ‘We must be ready to reinforce Davout. Send the cavalry reserve and all the horse artillery to cover the end of our right flank.’

‘Yes, sire. Do you wish me to order Massйna to suspend his bombardment?’

‘No. It may help to unsettle the enemy. Let him continue.’ Napoleon scratched his chin anxiously for a moment. The situation between the two armies had changed completely. Instead of launching a decisive attack to break the Austrians, the Grand Army was itself under attack. He dared not proceed with his original plan until he had discerned the intentions of Archduke Charles.‘I’m riding over to Davout. I have to see what is happening for myself. The rest of the army is to hold its ground and be ready to receive new orders. One other thing: have the Imperial Guard moved two miles to our right, in case I need to call on them in a hurry.’

Napoleon saw Berthier’s brief look of surprise. The order to shift the position of the Guard was a clear admission that the Emperor was anxious about the fate of Davout and his corps.

‘What if it is Archduke John?’ Berthier asked quietly.

‘It isn’t.’

Napoleon strode towards the white mare being held by one of his grooms. ‘Make a step!’

The groom obediently released the reins and cupped both hands as he bent down. Once Napoleon was hoisted into the saddle he took the reins and called out to Berthier.‘If anything happens, if the enemy make any further movements, send word to me at once!’

‘Yes, sire.’

Napoleon turned his horse away and spurred it into a gallop across the heart of the plain towards the Grand Army’s right flank. As he rode he was deep in thought and ignored the cheers of the men he passed by. Despite what he had said to Berthier, he feared that the attack on Davout might well herald the arrival of Archduke John. The right flank of the Grand Army would be vulnerable to the Austrian reinforcements.

Ahead of him clouds of gunpowder smoke billowed across the eastern horizon, blotting out the first rays of the sun. Napoleon raced to the corps headquarters on the edge of the village of Glinzendorf, where he found Marshal Davout’s staff hurriedly packing their document chests on to wagons. The crack of muskets and thud of guns came from less than half a mile to the east.

‘You!’ Napoleon pointed at the nearest staff officer. ‘Where is Davout?’

‘The marshal has gone to the flank, sire. Some of our units broke when the enemy attacked. Davout went to rally the men.’

Napoleon wheeled his horse round and rode on through the reserve formations of Davout’s corps until he passed over a small rise and saw the battle on the flank raging across the landscape before him. The edge of the sun had risen over the rim of the distant hills and by its light Napoleon could see the dark columns of the enemy tramping forward. They had crossed the Russbach and struck Davout’s men as the latter were forming up for their own attack. Tiny figures of fleeing soldiers were still spreading about across the plain as they ran from the enemy. The second French line had held firm and was now locked in an exchange of volleys with the Austrians. To the right of the line Napoleon could make out a group of officers, and he spurred his horse on.

As he rode up to Davout the marshal was busy issuing orders to his subordinates to steady their men and hold their ground. Some distance to the rear Napoleon saw the horse artillery and the cavalry he had sent to cover the army’s flank.

‘Sire.’ Davout greeted him with an anxious look. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘No?’

‘I thought you’d be leading the attack.’

‘The attack is delayed until this flank is safe. What is your situation?’

‘They caught us by surprise, sire. Their guns opened fire shortly before dawn, breaking up my leading formations. Then they sent their infantry across the river.’

‘What about their cavalry?’

‘No sign so far, sire. My guess is they are holding them back to mount a pursuit if their infantry break through my line. However,’ Davout gestured to the rolling smoke along the firing line, ‘we have stopped them, for now.’

Napoleon stared across the smoke and saw more enemy units marching to support their attack. Davout was right. His corps could hold their own. But that was not good enough. Napoleon needed them to retake the initiative and attack.

‘Hold your position here, Davout. Once the enemy start giving ground, you follow them up and keep pushing them back. Understand?’

‘Yes, sire.’

Napoleon nodded curtly, turned his horse towards the distant batteries of horse artillery and galloped towards them. The commander of the guns, General Nansouty, was as surprised as Davout to see the Emperor so far from the centre of operations and he stammered a greeting before Napoleon cut him short.

‘Nansouty, take your guns over to the right of Davout’s line. You see that stand of trees along the track there?’

Nansouty followed the direction the Emperor indicated. A mile away some poplars stretched out, shading a country road. ‘Yes, sire.’

‘That will be your firing line. The range should be good enough for case shot. You are to fire into the enemy flank as they close up on Davout. Keep firing until they break.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘There’s no time to waste. Go!’

As the horse guns rumbled into a trot, the chains of their traces jingling, Napoleon returned to Davout and his officers. He indicated Nansouty’s column thundering out to the flank. ‘You’ll have some support from that direction soon enough. Make it count.’

‘Yes, sire.’

They watched as Nansouty’s batteries deployed just in front of the line of trees. The gunners hurriedly loaded the weapons and a moment later there was a flash and puff of smoke as the first gun fired, quickly followed by the others. Napoleon turned his gaze on the approaching Austrian columns and saw several men suddenly smashed aside, then some more, and soon the side of the enemy attack was marked by a trail of bodies. The Austrians’ progress slowed as the battered flank battalions halted to re-dress their ranks, filling the gaps, before tramping forward again until they were hit by another salvo from Nansouty’s guns.

As the losses mounted Davout’s infantry began to counter-attack, advancing between each volley of musket fire. Caught from two directions, the left flank of the enemy attack began to crumble as the more fearful of the men started to give ground, falling back at first and then turning to run. For a moment the Austrian attack wavered, and then fear swept through it like a torrent. Battalion after battalion fell back, and all the time Nansouty’s guns poured lethal cones of case shot into their scattering ranks.

Napoleon turned to Davout. ‘I’m returning to headquarters. You know what you have to do.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Then good luck, Marshal.’

Napoleon pulled on his reins and turned his mount to race back to the west, while Davout’s drummers beat the advance and his soldiers let out a great cheer as they began their pursuit of the retreating Austrians.

The moment he arrived back at the forward command position Napoleon sensed something was wrong, as Berthier hurried towards him with a relieved expression.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Aderklaa is in enemy hands.’

‘How is that possible? Bernadotte has the best part of a division in the village. They’d turned the place into a fortress.’ Napoleon felt a leaden despair in his guts. ‘What happened?’

‘Marshal Bernadotte ordered his men to quit the village, sire. He informed me that he was obliged to shorten his battle line by pulling his men back between Massйna and Prince Eugиne.’

Napoleon closed his eyes briefly as he took a sharp intake of breath. The village was intended to be the base for his attack on the centre of the Austrian line. Now it had to be retaken, at the cost of the lives of many of his men. Because of Marshal Bernadotte. He breathed out through clenched teeth and opened his eyes.

‘Send orders to Bernadotte. He must retake Aderklaa. At any cost.’

‘Yes, sire.’

While Berthier hurriedly prepared the orders, Napoleon dismounted. As he landed, a terrible giddiness struck him so that he had to hold on to the pommel of the saddle for fear that he might fall. He raged at his body for this moment of weakness. He knew that he was suffering from exhaustion. Ten years earlier he would have endured this without a thought, and Napoleon realised that age was creeping up on him. He stood a moment until his head had cleared and then walked carefully to the map table and sat down heavily. He snapped his fingers at the nearest orderly. ‘I want something to eat. Something to drink. Now.’

‘Yes, sire.’

The orderly returned with a lump of hard cheese, some bread and a jug of beer. Napoleon did not care for ale and only sipped at it as he forced himself to eat.

Shortly after six in the morning, Bernadotte’s division of Saxon soldiers began their attack on Aderklaa. Napoleon abandoned his meal and called for his horse. Ordering Berthier to accompany him with a small escort of staff officers and lancers from the Imperial Guard, he rode forward to view the action more closely.

Marshal Bernadotte was close to the front, encouraging his Saxon infantry forward as they were met with a withering hail of fire from the Austrian defenders. The enemy had made good use of all the defences prepared by Bernadotte’s men only hours before, and fired from behind walls and loopholes in the houses on the edge of the village. Even so, the Saxons advanced steadily, the leading battalions closing ranks as their men were whittled down by enemy bullets. As he watched, Napoleon could see more enemy forces approaching from behind the village. He willed Bernadotte to throw his men forward, before the Austrian defenders could be reinforced.

There was a final flurry of musket fire at point-blank range before the Saxons charged home and attacked the enemy with bayonets. Napoleon raised his telescope, and through the dispersing gunpowder smoke he caught glimpses of the bloody close-quarters skirmishing on the outskirts of the village. A gallant young officer urged his men over a garden wall. Several men went down like skittles as they burst through a gate, straight into the muskets of the men waiting within. Two men were helping a comrade with a shattered leg to the rear. A sergeant smashed down an Austrian soldier with the butt of his musket before reversing the weapon and thrusting his bayonet home into the enemy’s throat.

Napoleon lowered his telescope. Bernadotte’s attack seemed to be succeeding. Once the village was back in French hands, then the rest of the army’s assault on the Austrian line could begin. At last, the morning’s crises had been contained. He turned to Berthier.

‘The moment Bernadotte confirms that Aderklaa has been cleared of the enemy, send the order to all commands to begin their attacks.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Berthier nodded, and then glanced past Napoleon with a curious expression.

‘What is it now?’ Napoleon grumbled, turning round.

The Saxon columns entering the village had halted. On either side, flowing back round them, were the men from the leading battalions. Some of the officers and sergeants tried to stop them, but were quickly thrust aside or knocked down as the Saxon troops fled. Napoleon raised his looking glass again and saw more flashes of gunfire and smoke amid the buildings, then the green of Austrian uniforms, and over them the standard of Austria, waving from side to side. A volley smashed into the leading ranks of one of the Saxon columns stalled just outside the village. That was enough to break their wavering spirit and they too turned and ran. In a short space of time the entire Saxon division was on the run.

A horseman raced out ahead of the fleeing infantry, cutting diagonally across their path and straight towards Napoleon and his entourage.

‘That’s Bernadotte,’ said Berthier, lowering his telescope. ‘Must be trying to cut ahead of his men to rally them.’

‘Ah, leading from the front, as usual,’ Napoleon sneered. ‘Even in retreat.’

Berthier glanced at the emperor and spoke quietly. ‘Sire, the marshal is a brave man, even if he is inclined to self-aggrandisement.’

‘Inclined to it?’ Napoleon smiled coldly. ‘Why, the man is utterly devoted to himself.’

Berthier seemed about to respond, but thought better of it and clamped his jaw shut instead.

They watched as Bernadotte reined in his mount in front of a group of soldiers and began to berate them, thrusting his arm out towards the village. A handful of those closest to the marshal stopped and regarded him briefly before warily turning aside and hurrying on after their comrades. Bernadotte called after them, then spurred his horse into a gallop to attempt to get in front of his men again. Ahead of him the plain was covered with thousands of his Saxons, the foremost of whom were coming close to Napoleon and his staff. Berthier turned to the commander of the escort and ordered him to send his men forward to screen the Emperor. The lancers walked their mounts up and halted ten paces in front of Napoleon, in a loose line, and lowered the tips of their weapons. The fleeing Saxons began to flow to the sides to avoid the new danger. Marshal Bernadotte stopped a hundred paces away and drew his sword, turning on the Saxons.

‘Cowards!’ he shouted. ‘Stand your ground! Rally to me, damn you!’

He edged over towards the nearest of his men and slapped him across the shoulder with the flat of his sword. ‘Stand! Stand with me!’

Napoleon regarded him in a cold fury. Bernadotte had not only failed to stem the tide of his broken division, he had been the cause of the debacle in the first place by abandoning the village and obliging his men to attempt to retake it, with disastrous results. He had endangered not only his men but also the army’s battle plan. Taking a sharp intake of breath, Napoleon clicked his tongue and urged his horse forward.

‘Berthier, come with me. I want you to witness this.’

They walked their mounts between the lancers and on towards Bernadotte. The moment the marshal saw them, he sheathed his sword, took up his reins and trotted up to Napoleon. He saluted as he reined in.

‘Sire, I regret to inform you that the attack has failed.’ Bernadotte swept his arm up to indicate the fleeing Saxons.‘As you can see, my men have failed me.’

‘Really?’ Napoleon folded his hands over the saddle pommel as he glared at Bernadotte in contempt. ‘Tell me, Marshal, is this the special manoeuvre you were going to use to force Archduke Charles to lay down his arms?’

Bernadotte’s mouth sagged open, and then surprise gave way to anxiety as he recalled his bragging to the other marshals the night before and realised that Napoleon must have heard him. ‘Sire, I . . .’

‘Silence, Bernadotte!’ Napoleon snapped.‘You have failed me for the last time. You are herewith dismissed from command of your corps, which you have handled with such incompetence.’

‘Sire, no,’ Bernadotte protested, but Napoleon continued.

‘You are to leave this battlefield at once. You are to leave the Grand Army before the day is out and return to France. I will decide your fate in due course. Now leave my presence.’

‘You cannot do this!’ Bernadotte blustered. ‘I am a Marshal of France!’

‘Not any longer. You are disgraced. I will say it once more. Leave my presence, before I have you arrested and taken to the rear in chains.’

Bernadotte straightened to his full height in his saddle and opened his mouth to speak, but Napoleon turned away and trotted back through his escort to re-join his staff officers. ‘Do not permit that man to approach me,’ he ordered loudly with a nod back towards Bernadotte. For a moment Bernadotte stared helplessly after Napoleon, then looked to Berthier questioningly. The latter shook his head faintly. With a tap of his heels Bernadotte turned his horse towards the pontoon bridge nearest Essling and walked his mount away, urging it into a trot after a little distance, and then a gallop - so stung by the shame of his treatment at Napoleon’s hands that he was compelled to leave the field as swiftly as possible.

Napoleon spared him a brief glance and muttered, ‘Good riddance.’

Berthier cleared his throat. ‘Is that wise, sire? In the middle of a battle?’

Napoleon nodded. ‘I could hardly afford to have Bernadotte fouling things up any more at such a critical moment, wouldn’t you agree?’ He turned to his chief of staff with a penetrating glare.

‘Yes, sire. Of course.’

‘Good. Then we shall have to try to struggle on without the tactical brilliance of Bernadotte to help us. Now then, send an order to Massйna. He is to retake Aderklaa immediately. Massйna at least will not fail me.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘And let us hope that there will be no further surprises this morning.’

Within the hour, just after the church clock in Aderklaa chimed nine, the tricolour was flying from the church tower. Napoleon had just sent an orderly forward to express his congratulations and gratitude to Massйna when a messenger arrived from General Boudet, commander of the division guarding the army’s left flank.

‘What is it now?’ Napoleon asked wearily.

‘General Boudet begs to report that he has been forced back into the Mьhlau bridgehead, sire.’

‘Forced back?’ Napoleon frowned. ‘What has happened? Speak up, man!’

‘Sire, we are under attack from two army corps. We are a single division. We were driven back.’

Napoleon was about to give vent to his anger at this new frustration when the full significance of the report suddenly hit him. This was part of Archduke Charles’s plan. The enemy commander must have intended to envelop both flanks of the Grand Army, but, for whatever reason, the attack on Napoleon’s left flank had been delayed until some hours after the attack on his right. It was bad timing for the French, Napoleon reflected bitterly. With Massйna’s attention directed towards the recapture of Aderklaa, a gap had opened between the Danube and the left flank of the Grand Army. Now, Archduke Charles was attempting to seize or destroy the bridges that crossed to Lobau island. If he succeeded, then he would sever the supply lines that fed the Grand Army.

‘How far have the enemy advanced?’

‘When I left General Boudet the Austrians were approaching Essling, sire.’

‘Essling!’ Berthier turned to Napoleon with a look of horror. Glancing round at his staff officers he saw that the news had stunned them. There was fear in some expressions too. He had to steady their nerves. He must set the example, or all was lost. Forcing a calm expression on to his face, Napoleon addressed Berthier. ‘We have two options. We ignore this attack and continue with the plan, and hope that Davout successfully crushes the enemy’s left flank. Or we send Massйna to block their advance, hold the bridges and then force them back.’

‘But Massйna is already engaged, sire. Besides, even if he could break contact, he would have to march across the face of the Austrians on our left. If they can bring their guns to bear then Massйna’s men will be mauled.’

‘That’s possible,’ Napoleon conceded. ‘My conviction is that the Austrians will not be able to bring their guns into action fast enough to do much harm to Massйna. Everything will depend on our speed. Firstly we must extricate Massйna and prevent the enemy from trying to maintain contact. The reserve cavalry are to charge the enemy forming to the west of Aderklaa. They must pin them in place long enough for Massйna to reach Essling and form his line there.’

Berthier nodded.

‘If Bessiиres fails, then our centre cannot possibly be held. The Grand Army will be cut in two. Make sure Bessiиres understands the danger we are in.’

‘Yes, sire.’

The situation was critical, Napoleon realised. As at Eylau, his battle line was in danger of shattering under enemy pressure. If the cavalry could relieve the strain on the rest of the army there was some chance that the line could re-form and hold off the enemy. While he watched the cavalry come forward and form lines ready to charge the enemy centre, Napoleon saw movement behind Massйna’s corps as a division from Eugиne’s corps and some batteries of artillery crossed the rear of the formation and formed a line facing the enemy columns advancing along the bank of the Danube. With a nod of approval and relief, Napoleon realised that his stepson had acted on his own initiative to attack the enemy’s flank. The crews hurriedly unlimbered their cannon and loaded case shot. Within minutes the first of them was in action, belching flame and smoke as the gun carriage leaped back on the recoil. More guns joined in and soon began to tear holes in the Austrian columns passing by their front. As the enemy soldiers were scythed down, each battalion had to slow to step over the bodies and re-form their ranks, buying vital time for Massйna.

Massйna’s formations pulled back, apart from one division left behind to defend Aderklaa. As soon as they were a safe distance from the enemy, the French soldiers turned about and began to quick-march across the plain towards Essling. The race was on, Napoleon realised, his stomach knotted by anxiety. If the enemy captured Essling and moved swiftly enough, they would take the bridges over the Danube. He could see Massйna riding up and down the columns of blue-coated infantry, urging them on. Despite having had little sleep for nearly three days the men stepped out in a lively fashion, kicking up a thin haze of dust from the dry ground.

A series of sharp bugle notes pierced the morning air and Napoleon turned to see the first of Bessiиres’s charges ripple forward towards the Austrian centre. A line of cuirassiers trotted across the plain, breastplates and helmets shimmering as their crests swished from side to side. Half a mile in front of them the nearest units of Austrian infantry began to form squares while the gun crews trained their cannon on the new threat.

‘A brave sight,’ Napoleon commented. As the horsemen closed on the Austrians and increased their pace to a gentle canter, there seemed to be a pause in the fighting on either side of the battlefield as the two armies watched the wave of men and horses thundering over the flattened grass and crops of the plain. The brief spell was broken as the first of the enemy batteries opened fire, scouring the leading ranks of one of the cuirassier regiments. Scores of men and horses went tumbling over as if they had been tripped, and the succeeding lines had to swerve round them like eddies in a stream. More guns joined in, decimating the ranks of the French heavy cavalry. The bugles sounded again, ordering the charge, and the riders dug their spurs in, extended their sword arms and let out an exuberant cheer that could be clearly heard by Napoleon and his staff officers as they watched.

The Austrian gunners turned away from their weapons and ran for the shelter of the nearest squares, throwing themselves flat at the feet of the kneeling front rank as the latter’s muskets came up, ready to fire into the approaching cavalry. The face of the closest Austrian square abruptly disappeared behind a line of gunpowder smoke and several more of the cuirassiers were cut down. The rest plunged on, riding into the smoke.

The squares of the enemy’s front line held firm, and the French horsemen were forced to flow round them, fired on as they galloped past. Some tried to lean from the saddles and slash at the Austrians with their swords. Others, more cool-headed, sheathed their blades and drew out their pistols, firing back at point-blank range. All the time, the Frenchmen were steadily cut down and the wounded trickled back across the body-strewn fields towards the French lines. The second wave of horsemen opened ranks to let them pass through, and then moved forward to add their weight to the survivors of the first charge.

‘They’re being cut to pieces,’ Berthier said. ‘They can’t break those squares.’

‘No. But that is not necessary,’ Napoleon responded coolly. ‘Just as long as they pin those Austrians in place, long enough for us to reorganise our lines.’ He looked round at his reserve formations. ‘We’ll need all the guns from the Imperial Guard. Line them up with Eugиne’s batteries. That’ll give us over a hundred pieces to blast the enemy with. See to it at once.’

As soon as the guns were in place, Bessiиres withdrew his battered cavalry divisions and there was another brief lull as the enemy squares formed back into lines and then advanced, en masse, towards the waiting Italians of Prince Eugиne, and the hurriedly assembled battery defending the centre of the Grand Army. With a thunderous roar the guns tore into the enemy lines, carving bloody paths through the leading ranks. Napoleon could only wonder at their discipline as the Austrians closed up the gaps and continued at a steady pace, muskets sloped.

‘My God, Berthier, those men are fearless.’

Berthier nodded, eyes fixed on the terrible carnage being wrought by the continuous blasts of the French guns. Over a thousand men must have been cut down before they came within musket range of the French line. Still their discipline held as their officers gave the order to shoulder their weapons and take aim on the French. Their first volley whirred through the dense smoke hanging in front of the cannon, striking down scores of the gunners. A second volley did as much damage, and there was a brief pause before the first company of Imperial Guardsmen were ordered forward to serve the guns. They slung their muskets over their shoulders and did as they were bid by the artillerymen who had survived the initial volleys.

The two lines stood their ground, the French guns and muskets of Eugиne’s men answered by the massed volleys of the Austrians. Napoleon watched the mutual slaughter without expression. Thousands had fallen, and all the time more were struck down, falling upon the heaped bodies of their comrades. It was a small mercy that the smoke became so thick that it hid the true scale of the horror from the men locked into a mechanical ritual of firing and reloading as swiftly as they could. The carnage amongst the gun crews in front of Napoleon’s position numbed his staff officers, who sat in their saddles and watched the bloody spectacle in silence.

For nearly an hour the firing continued. In that time Napoleon had news that Massйna had managed to form his men up in front of Essling and was starting to push the Austrians back. The cannon on Lobau island were firing across the river into the enemy’s flank, and under attack on three sides they could only endure so much before falling back. On the other side of the battlefield Marshal Davout was also steadily pushing the enemy back. Napoleon glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost noon. He turned to Berthier.

‘It seems that the enemy’s attacks have been checked, and the last of their reserves are committed to the battle. Now is the time for us to mount our own assault, break the Austrian line and defeat the army of Archduke Charles.’

The Emperor’s chief of staff looked round the battlefield. ‘Sire, we have few enough reserves of our own. Would an attack be prudent?’

‘Prudent?’ Napoleon shook his head in pity. ‘Have you no faith in me, Berthier?’

Berthier lowered his gaze.

Napoleon continued. ‘Send orders for the army to attack along the entire line. The main blow will be delivered there.’ He raised his hand and pointed to the ground west of Aderklaa.

‘Yes, sire. And who is to have that task?’

Napoleon thought a moment.‘General MacDonald. His men are the freshest troops we have on the field.’

‘They are also some of the most inexperienced,’ Berthier countered.

‘Even so, they will win the battle for me. What greater glory could a new soldier ask for? Tell MacDonald to form his men up to attack.’

Hundreds of cannon rumbled along a battle line that stretched from the Danube to Wagram, and then down the line of the Russbach river, a distance of nearly eight miles. Opposite the Austrian centre, General MacDonald led his men forward. Eight thousand of them, their battalions arranged in a huge square formation. As soon as the drums beat the advance, the formation marched forward. The men were sweating freely in their stifling uniforms. The ground before them was a patchwork of trampled fields, strewn with bodies and abandoned equipment from two days of fighting. The dead had begun to corrupt in the midsummer heat and the air was thick with the stench of decaying flesh, blood and shit. Clouds of flies and other insects created a steady drone as they gorged themselves.

Ahead, the leading ranks could see the enemy artillery crews hurriedly repositioning their guns as they spied the new threat through the thinning clouds of gunpowder smoke.

‘MacDonald’s men will make a fine target, sire,’ said Berthier. ‘That square of his will be impossible to miss.’

Napoleon did not respond, but just continued to watch intently as the first of the Austrian batteries opened fire. The range was long, and they had loaded the guns with roundshot. The heavy iron balls grounded with a puff of dry soil a short distance in front of the leading battalion before ricocheting through the ranks, mowing down every soldier in their path. More guns opened up and MacDonald’s division began to lose scores of men with each minute that passed. Their progress across the plain was marked by a bloody trail of dead and wounded. As they came within range of case shot the nearest guns unleashed a devastating hail that wreaked even more slaughter on the diminishing French ranks.

Berthier shook his head in wonder. ‘My God, they can’t take much more of this.’

Napoleon sucked in a breath through his teeth. ‘Pray that they do.’

The square staggered on, coming in range of the Austrian skirmishers, who added their fire to the cannon. MacDonald had already lost half his men, Napoleon estimated, yet still they advanced into the teeth of the enemy’s cannon and muskets. At last the survivors were close enough to the enemy line to fire their first volley in reply. The leading battalions deployed, loaded and raised their muskets, and fired at the nearest enemy guns and infantry formations. Napoleon felt a moment of blissful vengeance as the distant figures of Austrian artillerymen were cut down beside their guns.

MacDonald ordered the square to advance again and it pressed on, pausing to fire another volley before bayonets were fixed and they charged into the line of Austrian infantry waiting beyond.

The terrible tension of waiting for the division to get into action gave way to anxiety that MacDonald’s men had suffered too many casualties to carry the day. Napoleon nodded to himself as he made a decision.‘Berthier, we need every available man to support MacDonald! We must send forward what is left of Eugиne’s reserves, and also the Imperial Guard.’

Berthier raised his eyebrows. ‘But sire, then we will have no reserves left. Nothing to face Archduke John should he reach the field.’

Napoleon gestured towards the two battalions assigned to guard the headquarters. ‘That will be our reserve. Send them to cover our right, and order the rest forward to save MacDonald, before it is too late.’

As the reinforcements swiftly advanced over the torn-up plain, Napoleon read through the latest reports from the other sectors of the battlefield. Davout and Massйna were driving back the Austrian flanks and Wagram had been taken by Prince Eugиne and his men. Satisfied that the battle was tilting in his favour, he turned his attention back to the centre. With the aid of the fresh troops Napoleon had sent him, MacDonald was pushing steadily through the Austrian centre. Both sides were exchanging volleys at point-blank range and bodies lay in heaps across the battlefield. The arrival of the Imperial Guard proved to be decisive. After delivering one volley, they charged the Austrian line. There was a brief and bitter struggle and then the enemy broke, thousands of their men scrambling away towards the shelter of the hills running along the edge of the plain to the north.

At long last the Austrian army had been broken in two.

Napoleon stared at the fleeing enemy, too exhausted and too bitter at the cost of the battle to feel any triumph. As the enemy began to pull back the French battalions did not pursue them. The men’s strength had gone. The heat of the two days and the numbing slaughter they had witnessed meant that they had reached the end of their endurance. There was nothing further that could be done with them, Napoleon realised. Any pursuit of the Austrians was out of the question, especially with Archduke John’s army at large. He could only sit on his horse and watch the enemy make their escape, all the while burning with frustration.

Berthier spoke tonelessly. ‘A victory then. My congratulations, sire.’

‘Victory?’ Napoleon blinked his aching eyes and scanned a landscape of shattered buildings, heaps of bodies and the mangled remains of those caught by the full blast of artillery fire. Amid the carnage, the survivors stood, or sat, in a daze, some drinking from their canteens as they slaked their day-long thirst. ‘If this is victory, then I wonder can France ever afford such a victory again?’

Chapter 11

Schцnbrunn, 23 October 1809

A chill wind was blowing across the parade ground outside the yellow and cream walls of the palace, a short distance from Vienna. Overhead the sky was grey and threatened rain. Even so, the display had attracted the usual crowd of people from the city who had paid for tickets to view the spectacle of the Imperial Guard marching in formation, to the tunes struck up by their bandsmen. Some had come to see Napoleon, curious to gaze upon the great man of the day. For most it was the only chance they had to see him since the French Emperor rarely ventured out in public, and then only to attend the opera or theatre, where he sat to the rear of his private box, giving the audience no more than an occasional glimpse of him.

Napoleon stood on the steps of the parade ground, watching his troops march past. It was ten days since the Austrians had finally signed a peace treaty with France. The negotiations had dragged on for months following the battle at Wagram. Emperor Francis had cavilled over every point, playing for time. Napoleon decided that Austria had to be punished, and the eventual agreement forced Emperor Francis to hand portions of his land to France, the Grand Duchy of Warsaw, Bavaria and Russia. Emperor Francis was also required to recognise Joseph as the legitimate King of Spain and to restrict the size of the Austrian army to no more than one hundred and fifty thousand men.

That, Napoleon smiled to himself, had done much to diminish any future threat that might be posed by Austria. As a final reminder to Emperor Francis of the new balance of power that existed between Austria and France, Napoleon had delayed his withdrawal from Vienna. Today’s parade was to be one of the last reviews before the Grand Army began its march back to the Rhine.

The last company of guardsmen stamped to a halt at the end of the line and then a silence fell across the parade ground as Napoleon surveyed the men before him. Four regiments of the Old Guard, the finest soldiers in his army. He gazed fondly at them, even though he kept his severe expression fixed. Many of these men had fought for him at Marengo and Austerlitz. To join their ranks a man had to have served a minimum of five years and fought in two campaigns. That was before they were even considered for selection. The men stared directly ahead, many sporting extravagant moustaches and beards. Their uniforms were clean, their white cross-straps a brilliant white, and their buttons gleamed, due to long hours of careful application of tripoli powder. Their tall bearskin hats and proud bearing made the men seem larger than other soldiers and Napoleon knew that their appearance alone on the battlefield was enough to unsettle an enemy. When they went into action they were utterly fearless and ferocious and only the finest of their foes ever dared to hold their ground against the Imperial Guard.

Napoleon slowly paced down the stairs, followed by Berthier and General Rapp, the commander of the brigade being reviewed. Approaching the guardsmen, Napoleon began his inspection as he strode along each line, occasionally stopping to exchange a word with one of the veterans, conspicuous thanks to the chevrons on their sleeves denoting the number of campaigns they had fought in.

Once the inspection was over, Napoleon returned to the stairs and began to award the promotions, decorations and prizes to each of the recipients called out from the ranks. Each man approached the Emperor smartly, stood to attention while his citation was bellowed out by General Rapp, and then received the appropriate reward, together with the profuse congratulations of his Emperor. But all the time, Napoleon’s mind flitted from one preoccupation to another.

Foremost in his mind was the coming confrontation with the Empress Josephine. His heart felt heavy with remorse at what he must do when he returned to Paris. France needed an heir to the throne. Only royal blood would do, since it would make it impossible for rival rulers to deny that a child of Napoleon lacked the breeding required to rule as the equal of any other emperor, king or tsar. Even though the logic of his decision to divorce Josephine was unassailable, still he felt the sour grief of being forced to act contrary to his will. Despite all the infidelities on both sides, and his frequent despair over her profligacy, Napoleon loved her as no other. It was as if their hearts and minds were bound together, and the prospect of her enforced rejection crushed almost any notion of pleasure in his life.

Once the last of the guardsmen had received his award, General Rapp ordered the soldiers to shoulder their muskets and then, as the band struck up, the battalions marched off the parade ground. As the last company passed by the civilian sightseers began to spill out across the parade ground. Napoleon turned to Berthier.

‘How are preparations for the army’s departure progressing?’

‘The last two corps are ready to march. The imperial baggage train is packed and can leave at any time. There’s only one issue to resolve.’ Berthier paused. ‘That’s the sale of surplus supplies, ammunition and equipment we captured from the Austrians.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘The Austrians refuse to pay the price agreed when we signed the treaty.’

‘What are they saying?’

‘They’ll pay thirty million francs, sire.’

Napoleon shook his head with a dry laugh. ‘Thirty million! They must think me a fool. No, the price is fifty million, as we agreed. If they don’t pay up then tell that fool, Prince Metternich, that we will not leave Vienna until they do.’ Napoleon’s resolve hardened even as he spoke and he thrust a finger into Berthier’s chest. ‘You also tell him that if we are not paid in full by the end of the year then I will regard the treaty as having been broken, and that means war. You tell him that!’

‘Yes, sire. As you wish.’

‘Austrian bastards,’ Napoleon hissed through gritted teeth. ‘They brought this war on themselves. Emperor Francis is in no position to change the peace terms. I will bring them to heel, whatever it takes.’

He turned away and made his way down the steps to head back across the parade ground to his quarters in the palace. As he did so a young man stepped forward from the milling crowd of awed sightseers and strode towards him. Napoleon noticed him at the last moment and drew up with a scowl.

‘What’s this?’

‘Sire,’ the man said, eyes wide and staring.‘I bring you a petition from all Germans.’

Napoleon glanced over the youth. He was blond-haired, blue-eyed, and broad-shouldered beneath his plain black coat. Napoleon shook his head. ‘You must take it to my clerks. They deal with such matters. Now, then, if you would step away.’

‘No, sire. You will deal with it now!’

The youth lurched forward. There was a dull gleam and General Rapp cried out, ‘Sire! He has a knife!’

Napoleon stared at the youth, frozen where he stood. Then Berthier grabbed his arm and pulled him back, stepping in between his Emperor and the youth. There was a blur of blue uniform and gold lace as Rapp threw himself at the assassin and both crashed down on to the parade ground. Rapp clasped both hands around the wrist of the young man’s knife hand and bellowed, ‘Guards! On me! On me!’

The soldiers who had stood guard on the staircase came dashing over. The youth balled his free hand into a fist and smashed it into Rapp’s face, at the same time kicking out at the general with his feet. But Rapp rolled his weight over the youth’s chest, pinning him down as he held the weapon hand away from them both. A moment later the guardsmen reached the spot, and while one forced the youth’s hand open and took away the knife, the others dragged him to his feet. General Rapp rose to his feet, hatless and breathing heavily as he glared at the youth.

Napoleon pressed Berthier aside and took a step towards the German. ‘You mean to kill me.’

‘Yes!’ the assassin shot back.

Napoleon shook his head. ‘Why?’

‘You are a tyrant. Enemy of liberty. Enemy of the German people.’

‘Enough of that claptrap!’ roared Rapp as he threw a punch into the youth’s midriff. The young man doubled over, as far as the soldiers holding him allowed, and groaned as he gasped for breath. Rapp turned to Napoleon. ‘What shall I do with him, sire?’

Napoleon stared at the youth for a moment, still stunned by the suddenness and surprise of the attack. It was not the first time that someone had tried to kill him, but in the past his would-be assassins had used bombs, poisons and other methods of the coward. This was different. A direct attack on him with a knife, by an assailant little more than a boy who had no hope of escape whether he succeeded or failed in his attempt.

Napoleon cleared his throat nervously. ‘Take him away. Have him questioned. Find out who else is involved in this conspiracy. They will all be made to pay dearly for it.’

Rapp nodded, and gestured to the guardsmen.‘You four, take him to the cellars and wait for me there. The rest, stay close to the Emperor. If anyone else comes too close before you reach the palace, then shoot ’em.’

Napoleon set off, his guardsmen closed up around him, cautiously watching the civilians milling around the parade ground. Those who had witnessed the assassination attempt looked on in silence as the French Emperor and his escort hurried by, and then turned their attention to General Rapp and his small party as they dragged the young man away.

‘Death to tyrants!’ the youth cried out. ‘Death to Napoleon!’ Rapp leaped to his side and smashed his fist into his jaw, silencing him.

A short distance away, Napoleon glanced back at his assailant, and then noticed that his hands were trembling. With an angry frown he clasped them together behind his back and strode towards the palace.

Late in the evening Napoleon descended into the cellars of the palace. General Rapp had taken his prisoner to one of the empty storerooms beneath a little-used section of the palace. There Napoleon found him, with three burly sergeants of the Old Guard, stripped to the waist as they sat on stools around the youth, who was tied into a chair. His coat had been removed, and his white shirt and breeches were spattered with his blood. Rapp’s men had beaten him severely about the face, and by the light of a lantern hanging from a beam above him Napoleon could not recognise the features of the man who had tried to kill him earlier in the day. His lips were cut and swollen, his nose was broken and bloody and his forehead was grazed and cut in places.

Rapp and the sergeants rose to their feet as their Emperor crossed the room towards them, his footsteps echoing off the cold flagstones.

‘Well? What have you got from him?’

‘Not much, sire.’ Rapp pursed his lips. ‘My boys had to work him over before we began to loosen his tongue.’

‘So I can see.’

‘He says his name is Friedrich Staps. He’s from Saxony.’

‘Who sent him to kill me?’

Rapp shrugged. ‘He says he was acting by himself.’

‘A likely story!’ Napoleon snorted. ‘Someone sent him. Someone who was too cowardly to face me in person. This boy must have had accomplices. I must have their names.’

‘He denied there was anyone else, sire.’

‘Then he’s lying.’

‘I don’t think so, sire. He was questioned for over eight hours. If he was trying to hide anything he would have said something by now that would have given the truth away.’ Rapp paused and regarded the youth frankly. ‘He stuck to his story through it all. He says he acted alone.’

‘I see,’ Napoleon mused. ‘What else did he say?’

‘He is a clerk in a trading company. He believes in a greater union of the German states, and he accuses you of standing in the way of the destiny of the German people.’

‘What about his family? Did he confess any links to the Prussian court?’

‘Hardly, sire. Staps says that his father is a parson.’

‘Then he did a bad job of teaching his son the ten commandments.’ Napoleon stood in front of the youth and shook his head slowly. ‘Whatever happened to “Thou shalt not kill”, eh?’

Staps swallowed the blood in his mouth and raised his head to look squarely at the French Emperor. ‘You tell me, sire. After all, I have attempted to kill one man. You have killed tens of thousands.’

Napoleon was silent for a moment. ‘That is different. That is war. What you tried to do was murder.’

‘That’s a matter of perspective,’ Staps replied.

‘Really?’ Napoleon smiled faintly. His curiosity was aroused by the young Saxon. He turned to Rapp. ‘Is he securely bound?’

‘Yes, sire. I checked his bonds myself.’

‘Then I want your men to wait outside. You stay.’

‘Yes, sire.’

The sergeants picked up their jackets and bowed their heads before marching across the room to the door of the storeroom. Napoleon waited until the door had closed behind them and then took one of the stools and dragged it round and sat directly in front of Staps. General Rapp stood to one side, behind the prisoner, ready to intervene should he try anything, even tightly bound as he was.

Napoleon stretched his shoulders, easing the strain, and then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and clasping his fingers together. ‘Young man, surely you can see that what you attempted was evil. Not only evil, but irrational. You could not hope to escape.’

‘I was not concerned by that,’ Staps replied, licking his lips and wincing at the pain this provoked.‘I merely wanted to kill you. Nothing else mattered.’

‘That is absurd,’ Napoleon countered.‘You were prepared to commit suicide?’

‘I am still alive.’

‘For now. But not for much longer.’ Napoleon tilted his head slightly to get a better view of Staps’s eyes. ‘You must know that you face execution for what you tried to do.’

Staps shrugged. ‘Of course. I expect nothing less.’

‘Then why do it? Suicide is not the act of a sane man.’

‘I beg to disagree, sire.’ Staps eased himself up, straightening his back so he could face the Emperor squarely. ‘I did not happen upon this course of action by chance. I am not inspired by madness. I believe that the German people must be freed from the shackles imposed on them by you. I considered how best this might be achieved. Clearly one man alone cannot take on an empire and win. However, one man might take on an emperor alone, and vanquish him.’

‘And if you had murdered me, do you think that would have won you freedom for your people?’ Napoleon shook his head. ‘If I had been killed, France would still hold sway over your German states.’

Staps smiled. ‘It seems to me that France is a monster with but one head. Remove that and the beast is beaten.’

‘You flatter me.’

‘No. I see things clearly enough, sire. You are a great man. Like all tyrants. That is why killing you would have changed everything.’

‘But you did not kill me. Nothing has changed, and you have wasted your life without purpose.’

‘Perhaps. But there is a chance that my death might inspire others.’

‘Inspire them to suicidal attacks?’ Napoleon laughed drily. ‘What makes you think that I have not learned from today’s attempt? In future it will be impossible for a man like you to get close to me.’

‘Impossible?’ Staps pursed his swollen lips. ‘Not impossible. Only more difficult. In time, another man . . .’ he paused and smiled faintly, ‘or woman will get close enough to you to make another attempt, and succeed where I failed. The odds are against you in the long run, sire. Surely you must see that?’

‘Supposing it is not a question of odds, but of fate,’ Napoleon countered. ‘Some men are chosen by fate for greatness, and fate alone decides when their time is over.’

‘If you believe that, then what need have you of bodyguards? I suspect that you have no wish to put it to the test.’ Staps looked at the Emperor shrewdly. ‘There’s something else that worries you, sire.’

‘Oh?’

‘The fear that stalks all great men. You believe in your greatness, and the thought that a man of no consequence, such as I, could put an end to your life is an effrontery to your sense of that greatness.’

Napoleon stared at him fixedly for a moment, and Staps stared back, unblinking. After a moment Napoleon smiled and patted the young man on the knee. ‘There’s some truth in what you say. Yet now it is you who diminish yourself.’

‘Me?’

‘My dear Staps, you are no common man. What you did took great courage. I recognise that. Surely such dedication to your cause must be most uncommon amongst your kind.’

Staps narrowed his eyes momentarily. ‘My kind?’

‘Those who believe as you do. The comrades who share your beliefs and work with you to oppose me.’

Staps shook his head wearily. ‘I told your interrogators, there is no one else. What I did, I did alone.’

‘But you say you did it for all Germans?’

‘One man may act for the benefit of all.’

‘But surely it is arrogant for you to assume you know what is of benefit to all? That is if you are speaking the truth about acting alone.’

‘It is no more arrogant for me to assume that than for you to assume that you rule for the benefit of your subjects, and all those who live under the sway of France. Who is to say that one man knows better than another, be he an emperor or a humble clerk?’

Rapp stirred at the last remark and bunched his fists as he took a step towards the prisoner. Napoleon glanced at him and waved him away, then leaned back and thought for a moment.

‘If I accept that you did act alone, now that you have been apprehended the threat to me has ended. Provided that I do not make a martyr of you.’

Staps looked at Napoleon curiously. ‘You would let me live?’

‘I could,’ Napoleon replied. ‘Provided that you made a public apology for your act.’

‘An apology?’

‘You would have to admit that what you did was wrong. An act of temporary madness perhaps. And now you have seen things more clearly you realise that your action was foolhardy and without just cause. If you would say that in public then I would spare your life and have you returned to your home to live out your life in peace.’

Staps laughed, then winced and coughed, spraying flecks of blood across Napoleon’s breeches. A minute passed before the pain subsided enough for him to speak again. ‘And you would make an example of me. Living proof of your magnanimity.’

‘Why not? That’s what it is,’ Napoleon replied tersely. ‘I offer you life.’

‘You offer me shame, sire. You offer me the coward’s way out. I would rather die.’

‘Then you are a fool indeed. Where is the logic in choosing death over life?’

‘I did not act from logic, sire, but principle. Where is the value of principle if a man refuses to place his faith in it, come what may?’

Napoleon raised his hands. ‘Enough!’ He paused and took a deep breath before he continued in as calm a tone as he could manage.‘Staps, I must tell you that you have impressed me. You have as much courage as the bravest of my soldiers. I do not want to put an end to a life with as much promise as yours. It would be a waste. All I require is an apology. Here and now. I will not even ask for you to make it in public. Then you can return to your home.’

‘Sire, I am honour bound to tell you that I cannot return home. Not while you live. I do not want your pardon. I only regret having failed in my attempt to kill you.’

‘Then you leave me no choice,’ Napoleon replied in frustration. ‘I must have you executed. But know this, it is by your will that you shall die. If you truly desire death, then death you shall have.’

Staps leaned forward with an earnest expression and a fierce light burned in his eyes. ‘Sire, you must believe that I want to live. I want to live, and find love, and marry and have children, and die in peaceful old age. As do other men. I can assure you I choose death as a last resort.’

‘Then choose life instead, you young fool! I offer it to you, here and now. What more would you have of me?’

Staps leaned back in his chair and was silent a moment before he continued in a flat tone. ‘I will choose life, if you promise to free the German states. If you swear, by all that is holy to you, to end your wars in Europe.’ Staps raised his chin. ‘If you agree to that, then I will accept your pardon.’

Napoleon’s jaw sagged for an instant before he recovered from the young man’s hubris. ‘You will accept my pardon? Well, that’s uncommonly generous of you, I must say.’ He turned to Rapp and asked rhetorically, ‘Did you hear that?’

‘I heard, sire. Obviously my lads have failed to beat the spirit out of him. Let me try to teach him some manners, sire.’

‘What is the point? He is mad. Quite mad.’

Staps shook his head. ‘Not mad, sire. What other reasonable course of action is left to a man when he is opposed by such might as you command? I have committed my life to ending yours. Nothing will change that.’

Napoleon sat back and stroked his cheek wearily. He could not help admiring the strength of the young man’s convictions, however much he disagreed with them. The youth was attractive and obviously thoughtful and intelligent. Not so intelligent, however, that he could be swayed by Napoleon’s offer to spare him. It was a tragedy that the qualities that most recommended him were the very ones that now condemned him. Napoleon sighed.

‘Very well, take him away. Have him put in a secure cell and kept under watch. Make sure that he is made comfortable and fed well.’

Rapp looked surprised for an instant before he shrugged and stepped forward to haul the youth to his feet. Grasping him by the arm, the French officer marched him to the door, opened it and thrust him into the hands of the waiting sergeants. When the orders had been given he shut the door and returned to his Emperor, who was staring at the blood-spattered paving slabs under the chair that Staps had been sitting on. At length he looked up at the general.

‘Do you believe him?’

‘Sire?’

‘That he was acting alone?’

‘I don’t know, sire. He says he was.’

Napoleon thought for a moment.‘I cannot believe it. There are other conspirators . . . there must be. Staps is the product of all those secret societies that I am told infest the German states. Men like him are under the influence of religious zealots and political schemers. They make young men into assassins and fill their heads with false ideologies. But how can we fight against false ideas? They cannot be destroyed by cannon balls.’

Rapp pursed his lips. ‘Force has its uses in keeping people under control, sire.’

‘I know that. But it is at best an expedient. We must rule their minds and their hearts if we are to rule without living on the whim of maniacs like Staps.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Napoleon stared at the empty chair. He had escaped the knife of an assassin this time, but how many more men like Staps were out there, waiting for their opportunity? If he died now, then that would be an end to any dream of a new dynasty of Bonapartes. The need for an heir was more pressing than ever and Napoleon steeled his heart to do what was necessary the moment he returned to Paris.

‘Sire?’

‘What is it?’

‘What are your orders concerning the prisoner? How long do you want him held?’

‘Held?’ Napoleon frowned. ‘I don’t want him held. Draw up the paperwork for a military court. Have him charged, and convicted, of attempted murder.’

Rapp nodded. ‘Yes, sire. I’ll select the necessary officers in the morning. We can try him straight away.’

‘There’s no need for that. We just need the appearance of a fair trial. Draft the paperwork as soon as you can.’ Napoleon rose from his stool and stretched. ‘Meanwhile, Staps is to be shot. At dawn. Find him an unmarked grave and have the body covered in quicklime. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘I will not permit Friedrich Staps to become a martyr, or his grave to become a shrine. He is to be obliterated. Erased from history.’

Chapter 12

Fontainebleau, December 1810

‘Her imperial majesty is not happy with the new arrangements,’ Baron Bausset muttered as he escorted Napoleon up the steps to the chateau. A light rain fell from leaden skies and a keen breeze drove it into the faces of the soldiers and household staff who had formed up to greet the emperor. He had returned from Austria shortly before noon, tired and cold after several days in his carriage. He had sent word to Bausset a few weeks before that all the staircases and doors that linked his apartments with those of the Empress were to be sealed up. In view of the coming confrontation, Napoleon had no wish to provide Josephine with any more access to him than possible. He well knew the hold she had over him. Over the next few weeks he must be strong. He must resist her tears and her pleas. For the good of France, he reminded himself.

Bausset cleared his throat as they reached the top of the curved staircase that led to the entrance.‘Sire, the Empress has asked me repeatedly for an explanation for blocking the access between her apartments and yours.’

‘I can imagine,’ Napoleon replied. ‘What have you told her?’

‘I told her that I was only obeying your orders and had not been informed of the reasons behind your instructions.’

‘Good.’

As he entered the hall, Napoleon paused and undid the buttons of his coat and then eased his shoulders as a footman stepped forward and helped slip it from his back. Napoleon removed his hat and thrust it towards the man as he continued addressing Bausset.

‘Does she know I have returned?’

Bausset paused a moment before replying. ‘I received notice of your arrival some two hours ago, sire. As you instructed, the staff were told not to say anything to her imperial majesty.’

‘Some hope,’ Napoleon sniffed. ‘She’s bound to have a few of them in her pocket. Now then, I need some soup, and some coffee. Send them to my office. Has the fire been made up?’

‘Of course, sire.’

‘I sent orders to Paris for despatches to be sent here. I want them brought to me the moment they arrive.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Very well, then.’ Napoleon waved Bausset away, but before he could turn towards the wing of the chateau where his office was situated, there was a shrill cry of delight from the top of the staircase in the hall.

‘My darling! My dearest Napoleon!’

He looked up and saw Josephine smiling as she clasped the rail in her hand and leaned slightly forward. Even at this distance Napoleon could see her small stained teeth clearly and could not help making an unflattering contrast with the neat, white smile of Marie Walewska, waiting to be reunited with him in the suite of rooms that had been provided for her at the Tuileries. As soon as he made the comparison Napoleon felt the sickening burden of guilt and betrayal settle on his heart. He felt a flicker of self-loathing, then swiftly upbraided himself. There was no need to blame himself for anything. His duty to his country must come before personal feelings. Josephine would understand that. After all, she had hardly comported herself as the wife of the most powerful man in Europe should do. Her profligacy was a public scandal, and her past affairs had embarrassed him with a shame that still smouldered in his breast. He swallowed nervously and pressed his lips together in a thin, cold expression as he stared back at his wife.

A flicker of concern crossed her face, then Josephine ran down the stairs, her slippered feet pattering lightly on the steps as she descended. Napoleon watched her with a sense of dread and then hardened his heart as he drew himself up and folded his hands behind his back. She hurried across the hall and folded her arms around his shoulders as she kissed him on the cheek.

‘My love, I have missed you,’ she whispered into his ear, and then froze, sensing the unyielding stillness of his body. She drew back with a slight frown and stared into his eyes. ‘My dear, what is the matter with you? Have you no kiss, no embrace for your wife?’

‘Later,’ Napoleon said harshly. ‘I have work to attend to. If I have time, we may talk later. Excuse me.’

Without a kiss, or any other sign of affection, the Emperor turned away and walked towards his suite of offices. He did not falter or look back once, knowing that she would be gazing after him in that forlorn, helpless manner that she knew would melt his heart. When he reached the study, Napoleon ordered the footman standing outside to admit no one, on any pretext, unless they were carrying a bowl of soup. He closed the door firmly behind him and immediately crossed to his desk. A small pile of documents and letters lay on a salver, and with a heavy sigh Napoleon tried to banish all thought of Josephine from his mind as he slumped into his chair and began to deal with the correspondence.

Breaking the seal of the first document, he opened it out and glanced over the contents. It was from a senior treasury official requesting an interview to discuss the looming monetary crisis. Napoleon was aware that France’s coffers were running low, but had hoped that the new peace would restore the flow of taxes and other revenue. However, the treasury reported that the economy was suffering from the trade embargo with England, which was affecting the whole continent. That, coupled with the costs of maintaining the armies in Spain, was bleeding France dry. Napoleon penned a few hurried comments on the document and moved on to the next, a reply from his brother, King Louis of Holland, to his request for Dutch reinforcements to be sent to Spain. Louis claimed to be fearful that his subjects might rise in revolt if he attempted to send troops to the aid of King Joseph. To add to his grievances, he claimed that he could not enforce the embargo on English trade for the same reasons.

‘Fool,’ Napoleon muttered as he scribbled a terse response at the bottom of his brother’s letter. ‘Does he not understand that unless we break England, no Bonaparte is safe on his throne?’

The next letter contained a politely worded request that the Emperor might be kind enough to settle the debt owed by Josephine to a Parisian dressmaker. Napoleon’s eyes widened at the sum she owed. Over ten thousand francs. He glared at the letter, then thrust it to one side.

There was a soft click as the door opened and a servant entered the room bearing a tray with a small steaming bowl, some bread, a small decanter of watered wine and a glass.

‘Here, on the desk.’ Napoleon tapped the gleaming wooden surface to his right. The servant crossed the room and carefully lowered the tray before bowing his head and backing away. Napoleon finished his notes and set the pen down. The pleasant odour of onion soup curled into his nostrils, and he eased the tray across the desk in front of him. Outside the rain rattled against the window panes in an irregular rhythm as the wind moaned over the chateau. Taking up the spoon he began to sip carefully, his mind soon moving back to the most pressing of the issues weighing on his mind - the matter of how to break the news to Josephine.

A week later Napoleon ate alone with his wife. The last of the dinner service had been cleared away, with most of the food lying untouched on the fine chinaware. At length a steward served them coffee and then retired from the small salon where the Emperor and Empress had taken their supper. It was bitterly cold outside and night had long since closed over the chateau. Hardly a word had been spoken over the meal, beyond mere pleasantries. Napoleon’s stomach was too knotted with anxiety to allow him to eat and he had had to force himself to eat a few mouthfuls of chicken before poking at the rest of the meal and finally laying aside his cutlery and clicking his fingers for the servants to clear the table.

‘It will soon be Christmas,’ Josephine observed at length.

‘Yes.’

Josephine raised her cup and sipped carefully. ‘Nothing has been arranged.’

‘No.’

‘Well, don’t you think we should organise an event of some kind? A celebration?’

Napoleon looked at her, feeling sick at the imminence of his betrayal. ‘There will be nothing for us to celebrate.’

‘What?’ Josephine lowered her cup slightly. ‘Why do you say that? What is wrong, my love? You have been so cold with me from the moment you returned.’

‘I . . . I have something to tell you.’ Napoleon swallowed nervously and found that he could not continue. Josephine saw the pained look in his face and began to rise from her chair to come and comfort him. ‘Sit down,’ he ordered. Then, aware of the harshness of his tone, he forced himself to soften his voice. ‘Please, sit, my love.’

After a moment, she did as she was told and stared back at him. ‘What is it? Tell me.’

There was no longer any means of avoiding the moment and Napoleon took a calming breath before he spoke. ‘I must divorce you.’

‘What?’

‘I have to divorce you. I must have an heir. So I must find a new wife.’

She stared at him and then laughed nervously. ‘You are joking. That’s it. You are teasing me.’

‘No. It’s true.’ Napoleon felt the relief begin to flow through his body now that he could finally explain the situation. ‘This is not about you and me, it is about France. I love you, I always have. But we must be brave and put the needs of our people before our own.’ He watched her dumbstruck expression closely. ‘Do you understand?’

Josephine shook her head faintly, her lips trembling. ‘No . . . No . . .’

‘I wish, with every fibre in my body, that we could avoid this situation,’ Napoleon continued gently. ‘But it has to be done.’

Josephine clenched her fists. ‘Don’t. Please don’t.’

‘I have to. If we are to be divorced then we cannot be together. It would be unseemly.’

‘Don’t do this, my darling.’ Her voice quavered. ‘I beg you.’

‘It has already been done. The senate ratified the decree earlier today. I will announce it in Paris tomorrow, and we will both sign the formal agreement before the imperial court. It is best for it all to be done as swiftly as possible.’ Napoleon smiled. ‘To ease our suffering, you understand.’

‘NO! NO! NO!’ Josephine screamed, sweeping her arm out across the table, knocking her coffee cup and saucer flying towards the fireplace, where it exploded into fragments with a sharp crash. She rose to her feet and lurched round the table towards him, then stopped and stared at him, eyes wild.

‘NO!’ She suddenly raised her fist and Napoleon instinctively flinched. Instead of striking him, she struck her breast, hard, again and again.

‘Don’t do that!’ Napoleon stretched a hand towards her.‘Please don’t, my love.’

A sob racked her body, and then her legs gave way and she fell on to the thick rug underneath the table and curled up on the floor as she screamed and wept. Napoleon stared at her for a moment, knowing that he must not weaken this time. Her tears had undone his anger many times in the past, and caused him to change his mind. But not this time, he told himself. He pushed his chair back and stood over her.

‘Get up, Josephine. Stop crying.’

She shook her head and continued sobbing, adding a grief-stricken shriek every now and then as Napoleon stared at her, helpless as pity and irritation vied to control his thoughts. Behind him the door opened and there was a footman, holding a lamp, and beside him stood Baron Bausset.

‘Sire? I heard cries. Is anything the matter?’

Napoleon gestured towards Josephine. ‘What do you think? Come here, I need your help.’

‘Yes, sire.’

As Bausset hurried across to the table, Josephine reached out and grasped Napoleon’s leg. ‘Help me up,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t want to be seen like this.’

He leaned down and grasped her shoulder, slipping the other hand round her waist as he eased her on to her feet. Her eyes were puffy and red, her cheeks streaked with tears, and her bottom lip trembled. Napoleon felt a terrible guilt burning in his veins and a compulsion to hold her in his arms. Then Bausset arrived at his side and the spell was broken.

‘Here, you help the Empress.’ Napoleon tried to pull himself free but Josephine clung to his arm desperately.

‘Don’t leave me!’

‘I’m not leaving you. I’ll help you to your apartments.’

Her eyes glittered for an instant. ‘Yes. That would be kind of you.’

She eased her grip and Napoleon slipped free, taking a quick pace back. ‘Here, Bausset, you hold the Empress. Tightly, don’t let her fall. I’ll light the way.’

Bausset quickly stepped in and took his place. Josephine forced a smile and thanked the imperial official frostily as her husband carefully took a candle from the holder on the table. Cupping his spare hand round the flame to shield it from any draught, he led the way to the door. With Bausset supporting the Empress, the small party made their way to a small rear staircase and began climbing the steps to Josephine’s apartments on the floor above. As they reached the top step she suddenly went limp in Bausset’s arms and started weeping again.

‘Don’t do it, Napoleon. For pity’s sake don’t divorce me.’

Napoleon turned round. ‘Quiet!’ he hissed. ‘Bausset, for God’s sake, keep a firm grip on her.’

With Bausset half carrying and half dragging Josephine, the three of them made their way down the corridor to the door of her sleeping chamber. Napoleon opened the door and stood to one side, holding the candle high.

‘Get her over there on the bed. Quickly.’

Bausset did as he was ordered and gently laid the Empress down on her silken quilt, before retiring towards his master.

Napoleon felt a sudden burning on his wrist. ‘Shit!’ He snatched the candle down to brush away the molten wax with his spare hand and the little flame flickered wildly.

‘Don’t leave me!’ Josephine rose up on her elbow, her other hand stretched out towards him.

‘Out!’ Napoleon ordered Bausset. ‘Now.’

The two men hurried into the corridor and Napoleon shut the door firmly behind them, cutting off a fresh bout of tears and cries of anguish. He puffed his cheeks with relief before he looked at Bausset. ‘Stay here. The Empress is distraught and needs to rest. She is not to be permitted to leave her apartments until I say. She may receive visitors if she desires, but it would be . . . inappropriate for her to encounter me in the present circumstances, you understand.’

‘Yes, sire. I will see to it.’

‘Good.’ Napoleon patted him on the shoulder and then turned back towards the staircase, being careful not to let the wax drip on to his hand again. Once he was out of earshot of Bausset he shook his head. He felt worn out. His heart was leaden and yet he was grateful for the sense of release and relief that washed over him. He sniffed wryly to himself.

‘That went well, then.’

Chapter 13

The members of the imperial court entered the throne room of the Tuileries palace in silence. They filed to their assigned places and waited for the sombre ceremony to begin. The previous night had been bitterly cold and the roofs of the capital gleamed under a coating of frost, while jagged crystals of ice had formed in the corners of each pane of glass in the throne room. The sky was a leaden grey, adding to the gloom of the mood of those assembled to await the arrival of the Emperor.

At length, some hour or so after the members of the court had gathered in the chamber, the tramp of soldiers’ boots in the corridor outside announced the arrival of the Emperor and his bodyguards. The doors of the room opened with a light creak and Napoleon entered. He strode across to the elaborately carved gold leaf and velvet cushioned throne positioned on a raised dais. The throne of the Empress had been removed the previous evening and carried off to a storeroom. When he had taken his seat there was a short pause before more footsteps announced the arrival of the Empress. Josephine wore a simple dark blue gown, as if she was going to a funeral, Napoleon reflected. She crossed the room and stood a short distance in front of the dais, facing him. He could see that she had been crying again, and her skin seemed even more pale than usual.

Napoleon cleared his throat and looked round the chamber at the members of his family, his ministers, the members of the senate, scores of his marshals and generals, and representatives from the church. Josephine was the only woman in the room.

‘My lords, I have summoned you here to bear witness to a sad, but necessary, day in our lives. For reasons of state, I am compelled to end my marriage to the Empress Josephine. The senate has ratified the required decree and today both I and my wife will sign the civil register acknowledging the end of our marriage.’ He paused, not daring to look at her, and fixed his gaze on a ceiling moulding near the top of the opposite wall. Despite all his intentions to keep the formalities brief and without emotion, he could feel his throat constricting painfully. He coughed.

‘Before the decree is signed, I wish it to be known that I impute no fault, nor lack of love, to the Empress; nor do I mean her any disfavour. The only fault that has brought us to this unfortunate decision lies in the failure of nature to provide us with an heir to succeed me to the imperial throne.’

He could no longer deny the need to look at her, and his gaze fixed on hers. Fresh tears glistened in her eyes. She quickly raised a hand and dabbed them away.

Napoleon breathed in deeply, then stood up and signalled to Fouchй, the Minister of Police and one of Napoleon’s closest advisors, to bring forward the decree. Fouchй strode up on to the dais with a small writing case. Flipping it open, he revealed the document, and held the case in front of Napoleon. Taking up the pen inside the case, Napoleon opened the inkwell, dipped the nib inside and then moved his hand towards the bottom of the decree. He paused for a moment, looking past his brother towards Josephine. She gave the faintest shake of the head as she stared at him pleadingly. He looked down and quickly signed his name before returning the pen to its holder.

Fouchй retreated two paces and turned to approach Josephine. He addressed her coldly.

‘If you would sign the decree, your imperial majesty, then it is all over.’

Josephine stared at the document as if it were a poisonous snake, and then slowly raised a trembling hand to reach for the pen. She picked it up and charged the nib before preparing to sign her name next to Napoleon’s. She started to write, and then shook her head.

‘I-I can’t.’ Her voice caught on a sob. ‘I can’t do this.’

‘You must,’ Fouchй urged her quietly. ‘You have no choice.’

She shook her head, blinking back more tears.

Napoleon could bear it no more and rose from his throne and crossed to her side.‘Josephine, my dearest love, you must sign the decree, or all that I have worked for can come to nothing. Sign it, I beg you, for me. Sign it out of the love you have for me.’

Josephine nodded, held the pen ready again and then, slowly and deliberately, signed her name. As soon as she had finished, Fouchй took the pen from her hand and closed the writing case.

‘It is done,’ he announced to the people standing in the audience chamber. ‘The decree is signed and the divorce is official.’

His words were greeted with silence, the only sound in the room the sobbing of Josephine as she clutched her arms around herself. Napoleon raised a hand to comfort her, then withdrew it, and made himself return to the throne. No one spoke, unsure how to react, and nervously watching for a cue from the Emperor, but Napoleon sat still and silent, staring straight ahead. Then he rose abruptly and left the chamber.

Early the following morning Napoleon was woken by his personal valet, Roustam, and he dressed and ate a hurried breakfast before making his way down into the courtyard of the palace. It was not quite eight o’clock and the light was thin and pale. A convoy of carriages and wagons waited to carry Josephine and her retinue and belongings to Malmaison, the country chateau that Napoleon had decided to grant her, amongst other gifts and riches, that would ensure that she lived comfortably for the rest of her life. The horses pawed at the cobbles and the servants stamped their boots and rubbed their hands to try to stay warm as they waited for their mistress. Napoleon saw that her carriage was empty and called one of her ladies-in-waiting over to him.

‘Where is your mistress? She is supposed to leave on the hour.’

‘I’m sorry, sire. She sent word that she would be here at the appointed time. I last saw her in her bedchamber.’

‘I see.’ Napoleon lowered his voice. ‘And how is her imperial majesty?’

‘Tired, sire, for weeping most of the night. She was sitting on her bed when I last saw her, looking at your portrait.’

‘You’d better get into your carriage. No sense in you getting cold while we wait.’

She backed away and turned towards the carriage, and Napoleon looked up at the clock above the arch of the courtyard. The large hand notched forward another minute and he suddenly felt a familiar irritation with Josephine, who had always contrived to be late for events, keeping him waiting. His mood continued to sour as the eighth hour approached. Then, as the clock struck, a door opened and Josephine emerged from the palace, wrapped in fur and coolly elegant as she strode gracefully across to her carriage. Her step did not falter as she recognised Napoleon and she held out her gloved hands to him. With only the slightest of reservation he took her hands, and leaned forward to kiss her on both cheeks before drawing back. A pained look flickered across her face and he felt her hands gently attempt to draw him closer.

‘No, Josephine.’ He smiled softly. ‘That would not be a good idea.’

‘Is it so easy for you to resist my love?’

‘It is never easy.’

‘So?’ Her eyes invited him. ‘If you should ever want to visit me, I would not breathe a word of it to anyone else.’

‘That will not happen. We must both be strong in this.’

She bit her lip and then nodded. ‘Very well. Then I must go.’

‘Yes.’

She released her grip on his hands and turned away, taking the hand of a footman as he helped her up into the carriage. The door closed behind her and all along the small convoy of vehicles men clambered aboard and drivers took up their reins and whips. An order was shouted from the front and the convoy lurched forward, iron-rimmed wheels and iron-shod horses filling the chilly air with a clattering cacophony. As Josephine’s carriage started forward and headed towards the arch, Napoleon stared after it for a moment. The window did not open. There was no sign of her face at the small panel at the rear, and a moment later it passed through the arch and turned into the avenue beyond and out of sight.

Two weeks later, on the first day of the new year, Napoleon convened a meeting of his family and closest advisors. The clouds and rain that had seemed to hang over the capital for all of December had departed and left a clear blue sky. However, the Emperor had begun to brood over the loss of his wife, and his mood was not helped by the need to make a decision about her replacement. After consulting with his diplomats and sending messages to France’s ambassadors to put forward the names of suitable women a list of candidates was drawn up.

In the end there were only two that matched Napoleon’s aspirations, and he had called the meeting to help him choose between them. Once everyone was settled at the long table in the briefing room of his private apartments, Napoleon rapped his knuckles on the table.

‘Quiet, gentlemen.’ He paused until the others had fixed their attention on him. ‘We need to decide who is to be my wife, and the new Empress of France. You will be aware that I have been considering a number of women, and it is my belief that our interests will be best served by either the Grand Duchess Anna of Russia, or Princess Marie-Louise of Austria. As most of you will know, the Grand Duchess is the sister of Tsar Alexander. With relations between Russia and France as they are at present, a marriage into the Tsar’s family would help us to repair some of the damage that has been done to our alliance. In time, when there are children, they can only help to strengthen the union of our two powers.’

‘Sire,’ Joseph interrupted. ‘There is no guarantee that the Grand Duchess will be fertile. The most pressing need is to produce an heir to the throne. At fifteen, she will be somewhat on the young side to bear children. There might be a risk to her health that would not apply to an older, stronger woman.’

‘She is old enough,’ Napoleon replied.‘There are many women who are capable of bearing children at such an age. Besides, if she proves to be fertile then we can be guaranteed an extended period of child-bearing age. The Grand Duchess may well provide us with a good many heirs to the throne over the years.’

‘That is true,’ Joseph conceded. ‘However, we must consider her stock. The Romanovs are renowned for producing many sickly offspring, as well as a small number afflicted with insanity. We would not want to risk contaminating your bloodline with such specimens.’

‘No, we would not.’ Napoleon nodded thoughtfully. ‘Even so, we must bear in mind the political advantages of a union between France and Russia. Particularly now when England is so close to collapse. Fouchй’s agents report that the embargo on English trade is causing goods to pile up in their ports. Factories are closing and their workers are going hungry. Soon they will begin to starve, and when the people starve, they begin to demand change.’

‘We have heard this all before from the Minister of Police,’ Joseph said wearily. ‘How long is it that he has been promising us that the common people of England are close to revolt? Two years? Three?’

Minister Fouchй pursed his lips and shrugged.‘I trust what my agents say. The problem is that the English have a distressing capacity for endurance, and a lack of appetite for revolution. But trade is their Achilles’ heel. Cut that and they are hobbled.’

‘And still they fight on,’Talleyrand intervened from the far end of the table. Despite the deepening rift between them, Napoleon had summoned his former Foreign Minister with the rest. Talleyrand’s advice was too precious to overlook. ‘Indeed, far from showing any sign of weakening, their influence grows from strength to strength in the Peninsula. They defeated us at Talavera.’ He raised a hand as he saw Napoleon lean forward to protest. ‘I know that Marshal Jourdan and Victor claim it was a victory, and that is how you ordered it to be represented in our newspapers, but the truth is that our forces were repelled by the English.’

‘Really?’ Napoleon’s lips curled into a faint sneer.‘Then how do you explain why General Wellesley felt compelled to retreat all the way back to Portugal, if he won the battle?’

‘Strategic necessity, sire. All the English have to do is maintain an army in the Peninsula in order to tie down French forces many times their number.’

‘Enough!’ Napoleon slapped his hand down. ‘The situation in the Peninsula is moving in our favour. Victory there is inevitable. In the spring I shall send more men to Spain, together with Massйna, and the English will be routed once and for all. So let us not waste another moment thinking on it. We are here to choose a bride. As I pointed out, a marriage would do much to strengthen our ties with Russia. The risk lies with the ability of the Tsar’s sister to present us with an heir.’ He paused. ‘On the other hand, Princess Marie-Louise is nineteen, a ripe enough age to produce children. The pity of it is that she is no beauty.’ He recalled the long Hapsburg face she had inherited from Emperor Francis, together with a narrow nose and bulging eyes. ‘I admit that the thought of bedding her appeals more to my sense of duty than to my desire as a man.’

‘Sometimes great men are called on to make great sacrifices,’ Talleyrand shrugged. ‘Do not forget, sire, that it is your duty to provide France with an heir.’

‘True, but in this case I wish there was an easier way to achieve that end.’

Louis, who had not yet spoken, or even seemed terribly interested, stirred and caught his brother’s eye.‘If you’ll pardon me, I seem to recall hearing that one of her forebears, a great-aunt I think, gave birth to twenty-six children. That answers to her suitability for marriage on one ground.’

Napoleon stared at Louis. ‘Twenty-six children? Astonishing. That is just the kind of womb I want to marry.’ He turned to Champagny, Talleyrand’s successor as minister for foreign affairs. ‘Do we know how the Austrians will react to the offer?’

‘Indeed, sire. When I discussed the matter with their ambassador, he said that Prince Metternich had suggested a similar form of alliance between France and Austria. Apparently he had even mentioned Marie-Louise by name.’

‘That’s good,’ Napoleon mused. If Metternich could smooth the path for the marriage proposal then it stood every chance of success. However, he reflected, if Metternich was for such a marriage, then he was sure to be playing some kind of long game. Be that as it may, marriage to Princess Marie-Louise served France’s immediate interests, and if she proved fruitful, France’s long-term interests as well. He looked round the table and nodded.

‘All right, then, Princess Marie-Louise it is. Champagny, you must place our offer before the Austrians as soon as possible. If they agree, then we will need to move swiftly. I want to give the Russians as little time as possible to register any kind of protest about closer ties between France and Austria.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Inform Emperor Francis that I wish the marriage to take place no later than spring. Affairs of state will make it impossible for me to leave Paris for some months, so I will send an envoy to make the offer on my behalf. If Emperor Francis agrees, then the envoy can act as my proxy and the marriage can take place at once, and Marie-Louise can travel to Paris as my bride.’

‘A proxy marriage?’ Joseph raised his eyebrows.‘Would that not seem a bit rushed? Surely if we are to give the impression of a union of our two powers, a state wedding would be more emphatic?’

Napoleon waved the objection aside. ‘We can put something on later, if necessary, to keep the people happy. What matters is that we tie things up swiftly and that I endeavour to make my new Empress pregnant as soon as possible. Are all agreed then, gentlemen?’

His advisors nodded, except Louis who stroked his jaw with a rueful expression.

‘What is it, brother? You wish to raise an objection?’

‘No, sire, not as such. I am only concerned about the damage this will do to the French reputation for romance.’

The other men smiled and a few laughed, but Napoleon’s expression remained humourless. ‘There is no place for romance in the affairs of state.’ He frowned and hardened his voice. ‘Not any more.’

Chapter 14

Arthur

Lisbon, February 1810

‘The government is making a fine mess of things.’ Henry Wellesley shook his head as he helped himself to another glass of Arthur’s Madeira. The two brothers were seated in front of a fire in the country house Arthur rented from a local noble. Outside night had fallen and rain lashed the shutters. The army was in winter quarters along the border with Spain and he had taken the opportunity to visit Lisbon to arrange for provisions to be sent forward. He was also taking stock of the progress of the network of defences he had ordered to be constructed across the strip of land north of the city, between the sea and the river Tagus. Tens of thousands of Portuguese peasants had been conscripted to build the forts, redoubts and trenches on either side of the town of Torres Vedras that were intended to hold back the onslaught of the French army when it next attempted to sweep the English out of the Peninsula.

Henry had arrived from Cadiz in a packet ship, bearing the latest despatches from London. It was a source of considerable infuriation to Arthur that his political masters informed the British representative at Cadiz of developments at home, before such news was passed on to the commander of the English forces in the Peninsula. There was some small cheer on this day at least since Henry had brought the despatches in person, together with letters from friends and family.

‘By God,’ Arthur growled. ‘Those fools back in London. Anyone would think they would rather dish their political opponents than the enemy.’

‘But Arthur, as far as they are concerned their political opponents are their enemy. The French are merely an inconvenience.’

‘Precisely. I thought I’d heard it all when news arrived of that ridiculous duel between Castlereagh and Canning. It’s a miracle only Canning was wounded. Now both men are in disgrace and out of government, precisely at the time when all Englishmen should be putting country above all else. Meanwhile, we have that religious zealot, Spencer Perceval, as Prime Minister. At least in Lord Liverpool we have a cool head as War Minister. He at least appreciates the need to keep an army here in Spain.’

‘That he does, but Liverpool is struggling to defend that point of view. There are men in the cabinet who are quite open in their calls to either have you replaced, or have the army evacuated and returned to England.’

Arthur stared into the heart of the fire and asked quietly,‘Why would they want to replace me? What reason could they have?’

‘Reason? You are a Wellesley; Richard’s brother. That is reason enough as far as they are concerned.’

‘You forget.’ Arthur smiled. ‘I am not Wellesley any more.’

‘I know. You now serve under the name of Wellington. A silly choice, if you ask me. Typical of brother William.’

‘Wellington will suffice for the present,’ Arthur replied, briefly reflecting on his ennoblement following the battle at Talavera the previous year. The King had agreed to confer a peerage on Arthur to reward his victory. William had taken charge of the process of finding a title and he had discovered a small village named Welleslie in the west country. But rather than risk confusion with Richard’s name and title, the College of Heralds had chosen the name of the nearby town of Wellington instead. And so, from September, Arthur had become Viscount Wellington of Talavera. An awkward-sounding title, he had decided.

‘We cannot afford to abandon our hold here,’Arthur continued.‘Our presence forces Bonaparte to keep a quarter of a million men tied down in the Peninsula. Every day costs the enemy dearly in lives and gold. France is slowly, but surely, bleeding itself dry. And while that continues it weakens Bonaparte’s ability to field powerful armies in the rest of the continent.’ Arthur leaned forward and tapped his brother’s knee. ‘Henry, I need you to press the case in London. You must make sure that the government does not abandon the only strategy that can defeat the French.’

Henry sighed. ‘I will do what I can, Arthur. You have my word. The trouble is that our Spanish allies are not helping the cause. Their generals seem to be incapable of mastering their French opponents.’

‘Indeed.’ Arthur shook his head sadly. ‘But we need not abandon all hope. If the rulers of Spain have failed us the same cannot be said for the common people. Their hearts are made of sterner stuff and they will fight on.’

‘What good will that do them, or us? The rebels are no match for Bonaparte’s regulars. They will be massacred if they try to resist.’

‘I think not. Say what you will about the junta, and the army, but the war of the partisans will continue for some time yet. In that you may find the seeds of our eventual victory in the Peninsula.’

‘I hope you are right.’ Henry picked up his glass and turned it slowly in his hands for a while before he continued. ‘Arthur, I must ask you to take me into your confidence, if I am to help persuade the government to continue backing your work here. I must know precisely how you plan to wage this war.’

‘There is little I can do at present,’ Arthur responded flatly. ‘I am outnumbered ten to one. The men we lost at Talavera have only recently been replaced by fresh recruits. Many of the men who survived the battle are worn out, and some have been broken by sickness following our retreat to Portugal. What is true of the men is also true of my officers, with the additional complication that some are disloyal, some are incompetent and some are a downright danger to our own side. Even supposing that the army was ready to strike deep into Spain, I have not yet solved the problem of supply. The government’s parsimony means I can barely afford to feed and equip our soldiers here in Portugal. I will not be able to rely on our Spanish friends for supplies, and so if I am to wage war in Spain I shall need far more gold to pay our way.’ He gave a weary smile. ‘So, Henry, you see how I am constrained from taking the fight to the enemy.’

‘I understand that well enough, but then what is your plan?’

‘If we cannot attack the enemy then we must lure him into attacking us. That is why I have given orders for the construction of the defence lines to the north of Lisbon. For the moment Napoleon has fashioned a peace with the other powers on the continent. That means he will be able to concentrate a large army in Spain, tasked with crushing my forces here in Portugal. So, I will make a show of preparing to fight the French, while the land in front of the lines is cleared of people and stripped of food, shelter and forage. Then I will fall back into the defences and wait there for the enemy. The French will face the choice of trying to starve us out, or retreating back into Spain. Since we can be readily supplied by sea we shall not go hungry. The enemy on the other hand will begin to starve, yet they will not retreat for fear of incurring the Emperor’s wrath. That dilemma will destroy them.’ Arthur eased himself back into his chair. ‘That, Henry, is my strategy. We may not be able to win the war here, but we certainly won’t lose it, provided England is patient and generous with its supplies of men and money. It may seem perverse, but I would welcome a French attack. I only hope it arrives before the government in London loses its nerve and orders me to withdraw.’

Henry was silent for a moment and then nodded. ‘I will do what I can to prevent that, but you must realise that England expects victories, sooner rather than later.’

‘Victories we will have, when I am ready to deliver them.’ Arthur refilled their glasses and looked closely at his brother. Henry’s face was lined and his hair was streaked with grey. His duties in the service of his nation had aged him.

There was a tap on the door and Arthur twisted round towards the noise. ‘Come!’

The door opened and Somerset entered. Behind him, in the corridor, stood another junior officer, waiting in the shadows.

‘What is it, Somerset?’

‘Sir, I have to report that Captain Devere has returned.’

‘Ah, good! Show the man in.’

Somerset stood aside and beckoned to the officer outside. He strode into the room, the firelight gleaming off the braid adorning the pelisse of his hussar’s uniform. Devere was a recent arrival. He had been assigned a position on Arthur’s staff as a favour to one of Richard’s allies in Parliament. He was competent enough, but his arrogance was yet to be tempered by experience. Arthur had sent him out at dawn to negotiate the sale of a herd of cattle from a Portuguese landowner. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the walls as he strode across the tiled floor and halted in front of Arthur with an elaborate salute.

‘Sir, beg to report that I have returned from my assignment.’

‘Good. How many head of cattle did you manage to buy?’

‘None, sir.’ Devere stared straight ahead.

‘None?’ Arthur frowned. ‘What is the meaning of this? Explain fully, man! I assume you found his estate? The directions were clear enough.’

‘Yes, sir. I reached the house just after noon, and presented your terms to him for the purchase of his herd.’

‘And?’

Devere’s steadfast gaze faltered and he could not help glancing warily at his commander before snapping his eyes front once again. ‘Sir, I told him our price and how many we required, and he seemed somewhat put out by my direct manner. After we agreed a price, he told me he would not complete the transaction unless I begged him to sell me the cattle.’

‘Begged?’

‘Yes, sir. Don Roberto Lopez ordered me to go down on one knee and beg.’

Arthur rubbed his brow. ‘I assume that you refused his request?’

‘Yes, sir. Of course. I’m an English gentleman and I’ll be damned if I’ll go down on bended knee to some dago.’

Arthur shut his eyes and winced. ‘And did you actually say that to him?’

‘In as many words, yes sir. Through my translator, naturally. After all, I don’t speak the lingo and the bloody man refused to speak any English.’

‘I see.’ Arthur looked up. ‘And what happened then?’

‘Then?’ Devere frowned. ‘Nothing, sir. Don Roberto said that he refused to sell me the cattle. Not until I went down on my knee. I told him his cattle could go to hell and that we would find another seller. After that I took my leave and came back here to report. I’ve returned the gold to the clerk in charge of the war chest, sir.’

Arthur stared at the young officer. ‘Tell me, Devere, do you have any idea how much trouble I have been to in order to locate such a quantity of meat for our troops? There is hardly a herd left within twenty miles of Lisbon. Our men need to be fed. Now, thanks to your petulant display of hubris, they will go hungry.’

Captain Devere instinctively opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it and clamped it shut instead as he stood stiffly and stared straight ahead.

‘Look here, Devere, you’re a cavalry officer. What is the maxim of such officers? It seems that you need to be reminded: you look after the horses before the men, and the men before yourself. That means you put aside all other considerations until horses and men are properly fed. Correct?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Arthur gazed levelly at Devere for a moment. ‘See here, Captain. We are a small army of which a great deal is expected by our country. We need every ally we can get. In future let that thought be your guide in all your dealings with the Portuguese and the Spanish. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well, dismissed.’

The officer saluted, turned and marched from the room as swiftly as he could, shutting the door behind him. Henry cocked an eyebrow at his brother.

‘The man is not a natural diplomat, it would appear.’

‘He is young.’ Arthur shrugged. ‘And that melancholy affliction will soon pass. If Devere lives long enough I think he will do good service for his country. But for now, alas, he has left me with yet one more problem to resolve.’ Arthur pulled out his watch and glanced at the hands. ‘Nearly eleven. The hour is late, my dear Henry. Forgive me, but I have some work to do before turning in. I am sure you are tired after your voyage from Cadiz. We can continue our conversation in the morning.’

Henry smiled. ‘As you wish.’ He drained his glass and rose from his chair. ‘I’ll bid you good night then.’

Arthur nodded, and sat staring into the fire as Henry left the room. He waited a few minutes before making for the door and ordering the duty orderly to bring Somerset to him. Somerset entered, stifling a yawn, a few minutes later.

‘You sent for me, sir.’

‘Yes. I want two squadrons of dragoons in their saddles, immediately. And I’ll want some gold from the war chest.’

‘Gold?’ Somerset blinked.‘You intend to buy something at this hour, sir?’

Arthur stifled a yawn and smiled wearily. ‘Merely some goodwill.’

The estate was two hours’ ride from Lisbon. The route was hard to follow in the dark, made worse by the rain clouds that obscured the stars and moon. Three times they lost their way, and were obliged to find a farmhouse and wake the occupants to get directions to put them back on the right path, but finally, at two in the morning, the column passed through the gates of the estate belonging to Don Roberto Lopez. A long drive weaved through groves of fruit trees, bare-limbed in the winter, and stretches of pasture where the dark humps of cattle and goats clustered for shelter beside ancient walls. At length Arthur spied a single lantern burning in a portico. Around it loomed the barely visible mass of a large house.

The column halted by the portico and Arthur dismounted. He beckoned to his translator and strode stiffly towards the door and rapped the heavy iron ring against the stout timber. There was no reply and he waited a moment before rapping again, more insistently. The hiss of the rain and the low moan of the wind made it impossible to hear any sound from within. After a brief delay, the bolts on the inside of the door suddenly rattled back and the door opened wide enough for a man to peer suspiciously through the gap.

‘Good evening.’ Arthur smiled. ‘Please inform Don Roberto Lopez that he has a visitor.’

The translator spoke and there was a brief exchange before he turned to Arthur.

‘He says his master is asleep, sir.’

‘I should imagine so. Tell this man that I am General Lord Wellington, Marshal of Portugal and commander of the allied army. I must speak to his master on a matter of some urgency.’

The introduction was translated and the servant looked at Arthur closely and then opened the door and waved him inside. There was a large hall within, and Arthur could just make out the forms of picture frames and tapestries adorning the walls. The servant indicated some benches on either side of the door and muttered a few words.

‘He tells us to wait here, sir,’ said the translator, ‘while he wakes his master.’

‘Very well.’

Arthur sat on one side, and the Portuguese translator respectfully took the other bench. Removing his hat, Arthur wiped his sodden locks of hair aside and made a mental note to have his hair cut short again, as soon as opportunity permitted. He unbuttoned his coat, setting it to one side so that his uniform jacket would be visible, with the star of his knighthood and other decorations pinned to his breast.

Don Roberto did not keep his unexpected visitors waiting long. The loom of a lamp appeared in a corridor off to one side of the entrance hall, and a moment later the servant returned, holding the lantern high to light the way for his master. Arthur and the translator rose to their feet and bowed their heads in greeting.

The Portuguese landowner was an elderly man with a thin, haughty face. A neatly trimmed beard of snowy white lined his jaw and he regarded Arthur with piercing brown eyes. He gestured to the bench and muttered to the translator.

‘His honour bids you sit down, while his servant fetches a chair.’

The servant put the lantern on the floor and hurried to the side of the hall, returning a moment later with a heavy oak chair, inlaid with ivory in a geometric Moorish design. Arthur waited for his host to sit before taking his place on the bench again. The translator remained standing.

‘The hour is late,’ Arthur began,‘so please excuse me if I speak to the point.’

Don Roberto inclined his head in assent as he heard the translation.

‘I have come to apologise for the behaviour of the officer I sent to buy your cattle. Captain Devere is newly arrived from England. He is unused to the ways of foreign people, and he is young enough to not consider the impression he creates. I would have you know that he is not typical of English officers. I have also come to ask that you reconsider your refusal to sell your cattle.’

As the translator began to convey Arthur’s words, Don Roberto held up his hand.

‘That is not necessary. I understand perfectly well, thank you.’

Arthur could not help letting a brief look of surprise cross his face, and the Portuguese noble smiled. ‘What? Did you think that I only spoke the local . . . lingo?’

Arthur laughed. ‘By God, you have me, sir.’

‘Not as much as I had your Captain Devere,’ Don Roberto continued with only the faintest of accents. ‘I would have conversed in your tongue, but his demeanour so affronted me that I decided I was under no obligation to make the encounter easy for him. Tell me, do all English speak louder in order to make themselves understood by foreigners?’

Arthur smiled. ‘Alas, it is a common affliction.’

‘It is not the only affliction that we Portuguese have had to endure since your army arrived, my lord.’

‘The presence of my men is less onerous than that of the French,’ Arthur protested. ‘I will not tolerate looting or mistreatment of non-combatants. Any looting that occurs is the work of camp followers. They are not wholly respectful of military discipline, but I have ordered my provosts to deal with any camp followers they catch stealing. In time, even they will understand the importance I attach to good relations with those over whose land I am obliged to make war.’

Don Roberto regarded him thoughtfully. ‘It is a shame that you did not come here to buy the cattle in Captain Devere’s place. I would have received you generously. As it is, I was not treated with the respect due to me, particularly by so junior an officer. Your army is not here as an army of occupation. That is why I demanded that your officer went down on his knees to request the purchase of my herd.’

‘That is true. We are here to guarantee the liberty of your people, and to fight for the liberation of the people of Spain.’ Arthur spoke frankly. ‘However, the army cannot continue to defend its allies on an empty stomach. So I would ask you to reconsider your decision, and sell me the cattle.’

‘I see. Tell me, General, how long do you think your army will remain in our land? I ask since I see little indication of your willingness to engage the French.’

‘I will attack when I am ready. Until then I must maintain my army and ensure that it is fit and ready to fight when the time comes.’

‘And when will that be?’

‘I cannot say. All I can do is give you my word that I will do everything in my power to beat the French here in the Peninsula.’

‘Everything?’ Don Roberto raised an eyebrow.

‘Yes. The fall of Bonaparte will begin here, or it will not happen at all. That is my conviction. That is all that matters to me.’

‘I wonder. I am impressed by your dedication to your duty, my lord. But as I said before, my honour has been offended. Expiation is required. Do you still wish to buy the cattle?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I demand that you go on your knees and beg for them.’

‘You require me to beg you to sell the cattle?’

‘Yes.’

Arthur felt a wave of anger swell up inside. He was tired, cold and wet, and furious with Devere for putting him in this position. The thought of begging stuck in his throat like a rock. Then he took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. It would not be the first time, after all. He had gone down on his knees to Cuesta. But that had been to save both their armies from the madness of the Spanish commander’s decision to turn and fight with a river at his back. This new humiliation related to a week’s rations for his men. He could refuse. But then he would simply be reinforcing the damage done by Devere.

‘Very well.’ Arthur eased himself off the bench and went down on one knee in front of his host. ‘Don Roberto, I beg you to allow me to buy your cattle.’

‘On both knees, General, and please, add an apology.’

Arthur bowed his head to hide his dark expression, and slid his leading foot back so that he was on both knees on the hard paved floor. ‘Don Roberto, I apologise for the behaviour of my officer, and I beg you to let me buy your cattle.’

There was a brief silence before Don Roberto smiled faintly. ‘I accept your apology, and I give my permission for the purchase of the herd. You may get off your knees, my lord.’

When Arthur had returned to the bench he saw that the other man was regarding him curiously. ‘General, not many of your compatriots would have acted as you did. Even fewer of my countrymen, and certainly no Spaniard.’

‘I told you, sir. There is nothing more important than victory. For any of us. We do what we must, or we are lost.’

‘That is true. Very true.’ Don Roberto rose to his feet and held out his hand. ‘The herd is yours, General. I will tell my steward to rouse my people to drive them to your camp.’

‘I thank you.’

‘If I may presume, I would be greatly honoured if you would dine here as my guest one day.’

Arthur took his hand and smiled. ‘The honour would be mine.’

Don Roberto lowered his hand and turned away, and then paused to look back at Arthur as the latter made for the door. ‘One last thing, General. Please ensure that you pay for the herd before you take delivery, eh?’

Chapter 15

April 1810

‘It seems that Bonaparte has chosen Marshal Massйna to crush us,’ Arthur informed his senior officers. They had been summoned to his headquarters and now sat in the shaded courtyard, cooled by a late afternoon breeze. He held up a copy of Le Moniteur.‘This was taken one week ago, together with other documents, by partisans north of Madrid. Massйna is appointed commander of the Army of Portugal, a force of some one hundred and fifty thousand men. Even allowing for garrisoning his supply lines, that means Massйna will still outnumber us by some margin.’

Arthur paused as his officers exchanged glances at the size of the host opposed to them. The British army, together with the Portuguese regiments raised and trained under the command of General Beresford, numbered less than sixty thousand. After the retreat from Talavera the exhausted army had been ravaged by malaria and the blistering heat of the Mediterranean summer. It had taken the whole winter for the survivors to build up their strength, and for the new drafts of replacements to be trained for the next campaign. Yet Arthur was content that his army would be able to hold the enemy at bay. The men were more than a match for their opponents and they would have the advantage of a formidable line of defences at their back, should they be obliged to retreat.

Having permitted his officers to reflect on the odds arrayed against them, Arthur continued his briefing. ‘Our latest intelligence reports indicate that the enemy is concentrating at Salamanca. Their forward elements have been probing General Craufurd’s outposts along the Portuguese frontier near Almeida since the first days of March. It is my judgement that Marshal Massйna will attempt to invade Portugal from the north. It is the best route. The alternative direction of attack is from the east, towards Elvas, but the roads there are atrocious. Bad enough for infantry, but impossible for artillery and wagon trains. Accordingly, I have ordered General Hill to march his corps to join the main army.’

‘Excuse me, sir,’ General Hamilton interrupted. ‘But that leaves the eastern frontier unguarded.’

‘If you had permitted me to finish,’ Arthur responded coldly, ‘I would have said that Elvas will be defended by General Leite’s brigade. He’s one of the best of the Portuguese officers and I am confident that he will stand his ground - if the enemy should be unwise enough to attempt any attack from the east. The enemy will come from the north. Have no doubt about that. However, before Massйna can invade Portugal he will need to take the fortresses at Ciudad Rodrigo and Almeida as they guard the route along which he will advance. General Herrasti, the governor of Ciudad Rodrigo, has written to inform me that he has a strong garrison and plenty of supplies. He can hold out until he is relieved by a Spanish army.’ Arthur smiled. ‘I know we have not had the best of experiences at the hands of our Spanish allies . . .’

Several of the officers who had served at Talavera muttered their agreement.

‘However,’ Arthur continued, ‘they may act with a greater sense of urgency since their compatriots will be in danger. But let us assume the worst. Ciudad Rodrigo will fall. We can only hope that it delays the French advance long enough for us to improve Almeida’s defences. There too we must attempt to delay Massйna, until we have cleared the land in front of the defensive lines at Torres Vedras and completed the fortifications.’ Arthur looked round the courtyard to make sure he had every officer’s close attention. ‘The opening stages of this campaign require us to buy as much time as possible. Every day we can delay the enemy is a day gained for the improvement of our defences. Every French soldier lost in assaults on the frontier fortresses is one fewer that our men will have to face. I will be blunt with you, gentlemen: we cannot win this campaign in the conventional sense. We cannot march to battle and face Massйna on an open field and hope to defeat him. He outnumbers us, and his cavalry are some of the finest in Europe. We could not stop them flanking us. Our cavalry is far too weak to oppose the enemy horse.

‘Our goal is not to lose the campaign. If we achieve that, then we win.’ Arthur smiled sardonically. ‘Though the newspapers and other croakers in England may not be quite so accepting of this definition of victory. Do not expect to be the recipient of fine titles, pensions and other such spoils of war, gentlemen.’

His audience responded with a mixture of smiles and laughter. The newspapers and letters from England that reached the Peninsula were all too full of the opinion that Lord Wellington’s army was doing nothing in Portugal, and the soldiers should be withdrawn.

‘So, I am resolved that we will only fight on advantageous terms. When we come to face Marshal Massйna in battle you will all be required to move your men swiftly so that we may be strong where the enemy is weak, and that we quickly reinforce any points on our line that come under pressure.’ Arthur paused. ‘Any questions, gentlemen?’

One of the officers raised a hand, a stocky man in his early thirties, with piercing brown eyes and an almost completely bald pate.

‘Yes, Colonel Cox?’

‘Have you decided where to face Marshal Massйna, sir?’

Arthur was silent for a moment, wondering if he should take his senior officers into his confidence. If anything should happen to him, then it might be as well for them to know his mind, and adapt to his strategy for facing the enemy. On the other hand, Arthur realised that much as it might benefit them to carry on his plan, they would be handicapped by constantly attempting to pursue his intentions too strictly and thus lack the flexibility that characterised effective leadership. He fixed Colonel Cox with a steady look.

‘I have a location in mind.’

There was a brief, expectant silence, but Arthur said no more.

‘Where might that be, sir?’ Cox persisted.

‘All in good time, Colonel. You will find out soon enough.’

Two days later, Arthur was riding in the company of Somerset and a squadron of light cavalry scouting the landscape north of the Mondego river, the route along which Massйna was likely to advance, once he had disposed of the frontier fortresses. Most of Arthur’s army had already crossed the river and was camped around the town of Coimbra. The officers and men were in high spirits, almost eager to close with the enemy after so many months of waiting in camp, with the unending routine of exercise and drilling that their commander insisted on. Arthur was well aware that the army was spoiling for a fight, but so far Massйna had defied his expectations. The French had invested Ciudad Rodrigo slowly and the latest report from Arthur’s scouts revealed that the enemy had not even begun to dig any approach trenches, or establish any siege batteries. It would be some weeks before Massйna was ready to assault the fortress. The danger was, by that time the English soldiers might have lost some of their edge. The greater danger was that the longer it took for the invasion of Portugal to begin, the greater the chance that the government back in London might lose its nerve and issue orders for the evacuation of Arthur and his army.

As the small party reached the crest of a ridge on the road to Mortбgua they came upon the whitewashed walls of a convent. Arthur turned to Somerset.

‘What is this place?’

Somerset twisted round and fumbled for the map in his saddlebag. Drawing it out he unfolded the map and ran a gloved finger over it.‘Ah, here we are. The convent of Busaco, sir.’

‘Busaco, eh?’ Arthur muttered as he raised a hand to shield his eyes and examined the surrounding landscape. Ahead of him the road crossed the crest of the ridge and then descended along a curved spur. The slopes on either side of the route were covered with copses of pine trees interspersed with heather. To the left the ridge continued for two miles or so to the north before dropping very steeply to the valley floor. To the right the ridge ran almost straight, in the direction of the Mondego, nearly eight miles away. The crest of the ridge hardly varied in height and afforded a clear view along its length.

‘A good position to defend, I’d say.’ Somerset nodded as he gazed round. ‘We’ve a good view of the approaches to the ridge, sir, and any attacker is going to face a pretty tiring approach up the slope.’

‘Yes, so I imagine.’Arthur took another quick look over the position. The steep slopes would cancel out the enemy’s superiority in cavalry since they could neither charge up the rising ground, nor easily flank Arthur’s battle line and fall on the rear. He nodded with satisfaction and then turned back to his aide. ‘Make a note, Somerset.’

Somerset folded his map and tucked it back in his saddlebag before fishing out a pencil and his notebook. ‘Ready, sir.’

Arthur raised his arm and pointed along the ridge to the south. ‘I want our engineers to construct a road along there, in case we have need to move our men along the line to reinforce weak points. The route will have to be cleared of rocks so we can move the guns and ammunition wagons easily. Make sure that the road runs along the reverse slope. No sense in making our men a target for enemy guns.’ He turned to Somerset. ‘Got all that?’

‘Yes, sir,’ his aide replied as he finished writing the final words and looked up.‘Do you think we can beat Marshal Massйna on this ground, sir?’

Arthur pursed his lips briefly. ‘We may not win a decisive victory, Somerset, but we shall certainly give him a sharp and costly rebuff.’ He smiled. ‘That’ll be something to still the tongues of the croakers back in England, eh?’

‘Let’s hope so, sir.’

The siege of Ciudad Rodrigo proceeded as the spring gave way to summer. Arthur received regular reports of the enemy’s progress as the French sappers slowly dug their zig-zag trenches towards the walls of the fortress. Massйna’s siege guns began a steady bombardment of the outer works, gradually battering a series of breaches in the defences. Once the French came within mortar range, they began to construct a well-protected earthwork for a battery of the snub-barrelled weapons, which soon began to lob shells over the walls with deadly effect, cutting down swathes of General Herrasti’s men.

Towards the end of June one of the defenders succeeded in slipping out of the fortress on a moonless night. Picking his way carefully through the French lines, he made good his escape and was picked up by a British cavalry patrol a day later. The Spanish officer was at once escorted to Arthur’s headquarters in a tavern, arriving two nights after his escape. By the light of the lanterns hanging from the solid beams of the tavern the man’s exhaustion was evident to Arthur. He swayed slightly as he stood to attention and saluted. His uniform was filthy and torn and his face smeared with grime and scratches, incurred as he crawled through the siege lines.

Arthur bowed his head in greeting and glanced at Somerset who was standing at the Spaniard’s shoulder. ‘From Ciudad Rodrigo, you say?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘By God,’ Arthur mused as he looked the officer over again, admiringly. ‘That’s fine work. Somerset, I’ll need a translator. Send for Captain Hastings.’

‘Seсor,’ the officer interrupted, ‘I speak English. So my general send me.’

‘Ah, good. Good!’Arthur smiled warmly.‘Might I know your name?’

‘Captain Juan Cerillo de Alimanca y Pederosa, sir.’

‘Yes, well, Captain, what news do you bring from General Herrasti?’

‘The general, he says that he asks you to bring your army and raise the siege. The French, they make a breach. The fortress will fall in no more than a week, if no help comes.’

‘I see.’ Arthur nodded. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms as he regarded the Spanish officer frankly. ‘I must ask you to tell your general that there is little I can do to help him. My army is not strong enough to relieve Ciudad Rodrigo. The country around the fortress is open and flat. Perfect for the French cavalry, and I have too few mounted men to counter them. I am sorry, but I cannot afford to risk my army by coming to the aid of General Herrasti.’

The Spanish officer’s eyes narrowed. ‘If you are truly an ally of my country, then you would help us, seсor. Even so, my general has sent for help from the army of Andalucia. General Alvarez, he promise to send his cavalry to help the English raise the siege. You need not have fear of the French horse, seсor. General Alvarez deal with them.’

‘Is that so?’ Arthur’s expression hardened. ‘And what is the strength of General Alvarez’s cavalry?’

‘Five thousand sabres, seсor.’ The captain stiffened his weary back and stared at Arthur haughtily. ‘The finest cavalry in Europe.’

Arthur did not respond immediately. He had been promised much by Spanish generals in the past, only to be disappointed when their promises had proved worthless. Their bad faith had cost the British army dearly during the Talavera campaign and he had vowed not to make the mistake of taking them at their word again. It grieved him that the Spanish people, and the common soldiers, were patriots and prepared to defy Bonaparte whatever the cost, yet their senior officers were utterly unreliable. In all likelihood, General Alvarez would never make any attempt to raise the siege. Even if, by some miracle, they did march on Ciudad Rodrigo his men would be scattered by the first enemy formation that barred their way.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur leaned forward and met the Spanish officer’s contemptuous gaze directly. ‘I would ask you to convey my profound regret to General Herrasti. Tell him that I am unable to lift the siege. Tell him that if I were to attempt it, then it is possible that our enemy would inflict a defeat on the one allied army in the Peninsula that stands any chance of defying Bonaparte. I cannot afford to squander what slim hope we have of driving French troops from Spain in the future. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, seсor. I understand that perhaps the English are as Napoleon says - you cannot trust them. And that they will fight to the very last drop of Spanish blood.’

Somerset gasped. ‘Now, that’s—’

‘Quiet!’ Arthur snapped. He glared at his aide for a moment before turning his attention back to the Spaniard. ‘I apologise for my subordinate’s lack of self-discipline.’ He rose coolly and offered his hand. ‘There is nothing more I can say, Captain, except good luck, to you and your general.’

The Spaniard did not take his hand, but bowed his head briefly and turned to stride out of the tavern, stumbling slightly at the entrance as exhaustion got the better of his haughty demeanour. Then he was gone, and Arthur immediately rounded on Somerset. ‘What the devil did you think you were doing? British officers have a reputation for imperturbability and discipline, Somerset. I’d be obliged if you reflected on that and make sure that you do not damage that reputation.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Is that all, sir?’

‘Yes. Dismissed.’

Alone in the tavern, Arthur sighed wearily and then reached for the sheaf of maps on one side of the table. Fanning through them, he selected the map depicting the Portuguese border with Spain and tapped his finger on Ciudad Rodrigo. General Herrasti had done a fine job of delaying the French. He had bought Arthur several weeks in which to complete the system of defences defending the approaches to Lisbon. It was a pity that Arthur could do nothing to assist the Spanish commander. Except honour his sacrifice by defeating Marshal Massйna.

The French siege guns battered a practicable breach in the walls of Ciudad Rodrigo on the tenth day of July. Rather than subject the townspeople to all the horrors of having their city sacked, General Herrasti surrendered. It was a sad end to a valiant effort,Arthur reflected as he read the report, but there was no time for regret, as the French were already advancing on the border town of Almeida. General Craufurd’s division did what they could to hold them, but the enemy’s vanguard steadily forced the British back. Two weeks after the fall of Ciudad Rodrigo the French army reached Almeida. Craufurd had left behind one of his ablest officers, Colonel Cox, to command the Portuguese garrison. The town had been well provisioned and there was plenty of ammunition for the cannon that lined its walls. Arthur was confident that Cox would hold out for at least as long as General Herrasti, and so he turned his attention to the problem of persuading the Portuguese civilians in the line of Massйna’s advance to pack up their valuables and seek protection behind the lines of Torres Vedras.

Many had heard of the fate of those who had fallen victim to Soult’s army as it retreated from Oporto two years earlier, and willingly took their families south to Lisbon. Some refused, to defend their homes, and there were those who felt they could make a living out of selling their produce to the French just as easily as to the English. Arthur, still haunted by the memories of the burned villages and mutilated bodies of men, women and children that he had seen in his pursuit of Soult, tried his best to persuade the civilians to leave. However, there were still some who refused, placing the prospect of making money above the risk of being robbed and butchered by Massйna’s soldiers.

Three days after the enemy began their siege of Almeida, Arthur was in the small square of a village on the road to the town. The Portuguese officer who had been sent to tell the villagers to flee had failed to impress upon them the dangers of remaining in their home, so Arthur had decided to persuade them himself. The peril facing them all had been made clear to the local priest, who had rung the church bell to summon the inhabitants to the square. It was mid-afternoon and Arthur and Somerset sat on a bench in the shade of a dusty tree in front of the church. A short distance from them their translator sat cross-legged on the ground. The people were slow to emerge, disgruntled at the interruption to their siesta, and trickled into the square to squat down in whatever shade they could find as they waited for the priest to address them. They showed little interest in the two British officers, or in the six dragoons of Arthur’s escort, resting in the shade to one side of the square.

Somerset pulled the stopper from his canteen and took a swig as he glanced over the local people. ‘Hope our priest is a good performer, or this lot will be fast asleep before he speaks to them.’

‘Oh, they’ll listen all right,’ Arthur replied evenly. ‘I’ve spared the priest none of the details. I suspect he is more fearful over the fate of the church’s fittings and fixtures than he is for the people.’

Somerset smiled.

They waited a little longer. Somerset stoppered his canteen and eased himself back to rest against the peeling white paint on the wall. Arthur closed his eyes and tried to ignore the stifling heat and the irritating drone of insects as they hovered around his head, occasionally alighting and causing him to twitch or raise a hand to swat them away. After ten minutes he gave up and rose to his feet impatiently. The translator, the son of a Lisbon wine merchant, stirred as he saw Arthur stand up.

‘We’ve waited long enough,’ Arthur snapped, and nodded his head towards the priest sitting in the entrance of his church.‘Tell him that he must begin.’

The translator hurried across to the priest and respectfully bowed his head before he passed on Arthur’s order. The priest looked round the square, where no more than fifty people had gathered, and shrugged. He stood up and strode over to join Arthur, followed by the translator.

‘Tell him to let his people know they are in the path of the French army. They will be advancing right up this road.’ Arthur gestured along the street that led through the heart of the village.‘Tell the villagers that I am the commander of all the Portuguese and British forces in Portugal, and I have seen with my own eyes the fate that the French visit upon those whose lands they pass through. Tell the priest to repeat what I described to him earlier.’ As the priest turned to his people and began to speak, Arthur murmured to Somerset, ‘If that doesn’t persuade them, nothing will, and then God help them.’

The local people listened to the priest in silence, but as he continued some of them began to shake their heads, and Arthur felt his heart sink at the gesture. His gloom was interrupted when he noticed a rider entering the village, an officer, whose red jacket had become dulled by exposure to the elements and a liberal coating of dust. The man reined in beside the dragoons and dismounted, then handed the reins to one of the troopers and strode up the street towards Arthur.

‘Somerset, see that fellow?’ Arthur nodded discreetly.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I don’t want him distracting attention. Intercept him and see what he wants.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Somerset backed away and made his way at an easy pace round the small crowd and down the street towards the approaching officer. While Arthur stood still and listened calmly, but uncomprehendingly, to the priest, he watched as Somerset reached the officer and took him off to one side, out of sight of those in the square. A short time later they reappeared, and the officer hurried back to his mount, swung himself into the saddle and rode back down the road. Somerset came to the edge of the square and gestured to Arthur.

Arthur leaned towards his translator and muttered, ‘Tell the priest to get to the conclusion. Swiftly.’

The translator nodded and then whispered close to the priest’s ear. The latter glanced at Arthur with a frown, then shrugged and raised his voice, spoke quickly, and ended with a brief incantation and the sign of the cross. The local people were still for a moment and then some turned away while a handful clustered together to converse in low voices. Arthur thanked the priest and made his way across the square to Somerset.

‘Well?’

‘Bad news, sir. One of Craufurd’s patrols reported that Almeida has fallen.’

‘Fallen?’Arthur’s eyebrows rose.‘How? Cox should have been able to hold out for weeks. What happened?’

‘The patrol was watching the French guns open their bombardment. Nothing untoward happened for the first few hours, and then there was an explosion.’

‘Explosion?’

‘Yes, sir. Seems that a lucky shot must have found a way into the garrison’s arsenal, and set their powder reserves off. Apparently the blast destroyed much of the town and damaged the fortifications. Can’t have done much for the defenders’ morale either. In any case, they surrendered before the day was out. Our men saw the French flag raised over the fortress.’

Arthur considered the news quickly. Massйna had taken Almeida. Nothing now stood in his way. The road into Portugal was open.

‘By God, the enemy could already be advancing on us,’ he said softly. ‘Somerset, there’s not a moment to waste. Send word to every element of the army. They are to fall back and concentrate on the ridge at Busaco.’

‘Busaco. Yes, sir.’

As Somerset dashed towards his horse,Arthur took a last look around the village. In a matter of days the French would be here. They would devastate this place, and bring hunger and death to its people. Then they would march on Lisbon, and only the outnumbered men of the allied army would stand in their way.

Chapter 16

Busaco Ridge, 27 September 1810

‘Damn this mist,’ Arthur grumbled as he stared down the slope. Even though it was past six in the morning and the sun had risen well above the horizon, a thick mist shrouded the foot of the ridge, concealing the French camp below. The allied army had moved to their appointed positions along the ridge the evening before and had slept in the open. They had stirred and formed before dawn and were now in an extended line that ran just below the crest of the ridge, out of sight of the enemy. The only troops visible to the French were the riflemen of Craufurd’s division, and a battery of six-pounders covering the road that climbed to the ridge and passed along the walls of Busaco convent. Arthur and Somerset had ridden forward to the riflemen who had occupied the village of Sula. Resting his telescope on a crumbling wall, Arthur surveyed the point where the road dissolved into the mist. Only a handful of French soldiers were visible. Pickets most likely, Arthur decided.

‘Can’t see anything of their main force.’ Arthur lowered his telescope and slowly tapped his fingers on the top of the wall.

‘May I?’ Somerset gestured towards the telescope and Arthur passed it to him. ‘If Massйna intends to fight his way over the Mondego, then he will have to take Busaco first, sir.’

‘True enough,’ Arthur conceded. The French army was down there somewhere, in any case. Shortly after the British and Portuguese soldiers had stirred, the enemy drums had beaten the reveille and the bellowed orders of the sergeants had carried clearly up the slope. Since then, the only other sounds had been the rumble of iron-rimmed wheels, and the occasional neigh of a horse and crack of a whip as the French guns were moved forward. Now all was quiet, and it was hard to believe that Massйna’s army was formed up somewhere along the base of the ridge, ready to assault the British line. The latest intelligence put the size of the French forces at over sixty thousand. As Arthur had hoped, the enemy’s initial strength had been eroded by the sieges and the need to leave strong garrisons behind to protect Massйna’s communication lines.

Arthur was silent for a moment before he nodded his head and muttered, ‘Massйna will attack us here, I am sure of it. I dare say that he will see our riflemen and assume that there is nothing but a rearguard at Busaco. A force that he will be able to brush aside before continuing his advance into Portugal.’ Arthur smiled. ‘It is my intention to disabuse Massйna of that perception.’

Somerset returned the smile briefly. ‘As long as the men stay out of sight, sir.’

‘That is so. But I shall only reveal them when I must.’

‘Let us keep our French friends guessing for as long as we can, eh, sir?’

‘That is the idea,’ Arthur replied, and then gestured towards the mist obscuring the low ground in front of the ridge. ‘However, it plays both ways, Somerset. We have too few men to cover the entire length of the ridge. Until the French reveal the direction of their attack, I cannot know where to concentrate our fellows in order to repel the enemy. Still, I’m sure we will not have much longer to wait before Marshal Massйna reveals his hand.’

A faint popping of musket fire away to the right drew their attention. There was no sign of any movement above the edge of the mist. Arthur held out his hand.

‘My telescope, if you please. Quickly now.’

He raised it and squinted into the eyepiece. A mile or so away the forward slope of the ridge was covered with sparse patches of heather between small outcrops of rock. At first he could see little sign of life, apart from a handful of riflemen dotted amongst the rocks. Then, a figure in a dark uniform emerged from the mist and scurried a short distance uphill before taking cover behind a boulder and reloading his weapon. Others followed suit, and then a few moments passed as the first of the French skirmishers cautiously picked their way up the slope in pairs, one man shooting while his comrade reloaded. Craufurd’s riflemen returned fire and tiny puffs of smoke instantly blossomed across the slope. Every so often a man on either side would topple over and disappear from sight amid the grass and heather. As the exchange of fire continued the French worked their way forward, pressing in on the riflemen until the latter fell back to a new position.

A movement at the edge of the bank of mist caught Arthur’s eye as a French column emerged into view, a standard swirling slowly above the leading ranks. There was a brief sparkle of light as the sun caught the gilded eagle atop the standard. Arthur lowered his telescope.

‘The first attack of the day, I think. Massйna intends to turn our flank.’

Somerset nodded. ‘Yes, sir. But they’ll not get far. If they continue to advance in that direction then they’ll run into Mackinnon’s brigade. And there are at least a dozen guns that can be brought to bear on the French column.’

Arthur continued to watch as the British skirmishers fell back towards the crest, keeping up a harassing fire as they did so. He was pleased to note that they were careful to target the officers leading the French column, and every so often a figure urging his men on with a gleaming sword held high would fall. As they reached the crest the riflemen ceased fire and hurried back to join the neat lines of their comrades on the reverse slope. No doubt sensing victory, the head of the French column surged towards the crest.

‘There they go,’ Somerset muttered as the allied line advanced up on to the crest; a battalion of redcoats with Portugese battalions on either flank. Arthur watched keenly. This was the first major action for the Portuguese infantry, recruited and trained by General Beresford and his officers. They had every advantage over the Frenchmen before them and if they survived their baptism of fire, then they would be confident enough to hold their place in the line on any battlefield. A battery of cannon was positioned just beyond each flank of the brigade and the crews made ready to fire.

The head of the French column hesitated as the three allied battalions appeared over the crest of the ridge, halted, and then lowered their muskets to deliver the first volley of the battle. With a crash that carried clearly along the ridge to Arthur, the brigade struck down the leading ranks of the attacking column, leaving bodies heaped and writhing along the front. Then the guns on each flank blasted out. Grapeshot swept through the densely packed ranks, cutting down scores of men as heavy lead balls smashed their way through flesh and bone.

Despite this savage punishment the French soldiers in the rear ranks edged forward as sergeants and officers desperately ordered them to form line. Under fire from three battalions and the cannon, there was little chance of the change in formation being carried out with any sense of order. Instead, those at the front continued to fire and load as quickly as possible, shooting blind into the bank of gunpowder smoke that hung in the air between the two sides.

‘Those fellows are made of sterner stuff than most of the Frenchmen I’ve seen in action,’ Arthur commented. ‘By God, they can take everything that Mackinnon’s brigade are giving them.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Somerset nodded. ‘They’re bearing up to it, for the present. But they’ll break, soon enough.’ He paused, then squinted at the slope, closer to their position, before thrusting his arm out. ‘Sir, look there! Another column, I think.’

Arthur’s gaze followed the direction indicated and he saw the enemy, a screen of skirmishers emerging from the mist. They were headed up at an angle from their comrades, following a shallow gully up towards the crest of the ridge, halfway between Mackinnon’s brigade and the track leading towards Busaco convent. A quick glance told him all he needed to know.

‘There’s no one to turn them back if they don’t change direction.’

Somerset glanced at the crest, and saw that there was no sign of any allied officers to indicate the presence of their men on the reverse slope. ‘You’re right, sir.’

‘There isn’t much time.’ Arthur turned away from the wall and hurried towards the orderly holding the horses. With a lithe step up into the stirrup he swung his leg over the saddle. Somerset scrambled after him as Arthur spurred his horse into a gallop. They headed out of Sula and made their way along the crude road that had been cleared along the ridge by Arthur’s engineers. As they rode, Arthur kept glancing to his left to keep track of the approaching column. No doubt Massйna had sent both columns forward to take the crest, but they had become separated in the mist, and had continued up the slope in widely diverging directions. Now, by sheer bad luck, the second column was heading for an undefended stretch of the ridge.

The route veered off towards the reverse slope and a quarter of a mile ahead of them Arthur saw a company of redcoats, then the rest of the battalion, in an uneven line, spread across the undulating side of the ridge. The nearest men turned to look as their commander and his aide came galloping up. One of the soldiers raised his shako and gave a hoarse cheer, taken up by a handful of others as Arthur thundered by. There was little more than ten minutes before the French skirmishers reached the crest and realised the opportunity that was there to be grasped. If they could break through the allied line then each half could be destroyed in turn. Even though Busaco was as fine a defensive position as Arthur had seen in the Peninsula, that had always been the danger in trying to defend the ridge: too few men to hold its ten-mile length.

The colonel of the Eighty-eighth Foot, Alexander Wallace, saw the two riders approaching and trotted his mount forward to meet them.

‘Good day to you, my lord.’ He bowed his head. ‘And to you, Somerset.’

Arthur nodded briefly and pointed back along the crest. ‘There’s a French column coming up from the mist. They threaten to cut through our line. I need your men half a mile to the north there. At the double.’

‘At the double, yes, sir.’

Arthur fixed him with a steady look. ‘You must hold them at all costs. There may be an entire division of them. Do you think your fellows can do their duty?’

‘Aye, sir. They will,’ Wallace replied soberly.

‘Good, then see to it, as swiftly as you can.’

They exchanged a salute and Arthur wheeled his horse round and galloped back along the ridge towards the point threatened by the French column tramping steadily up the slope. At first they could see nothing of the enemy as they rode, and Arthur wondered if they had withdrawn, or changed direction. Then he saw the fold in the slope where the gully dropped away, concealing a wide breadth of ground within. The first pairs of skirmishers were already in view, cautiously moving up the slope, looking for the first sign of their opposite numbers, but the ridge ahead of them was empty beneath a warm morning sky as larks flitted low over the heather.

‘My lord, over there!’ Somerset called out from behind.

‘I see them.’

Arthur reined in and stared at the French skirmishers, then twisted round to look along the track. The leading company of the Eighty-eighth was still nearly half a mile back, musket barrels chinking from side to side as they trotted along the rear of the crest, kicking up a faint haze of dust in their wake. It would take them at least another ten minutes to reach their new position, directly in front of the French. Turning back, Arthur saw that the skirmishers were less than a quarter of a mile from the crest. Ahead of them, the steepness of the slope increased before abruptly flattening out a short distance from the top of the ridge.

There was still time, he decided. Just enough time, if Wallace’s men kept up their pace.

‘Somerset!’

‘Sir?’

‘Ride back to Wallace. Tell him to form the centre of his line some two hundred yards on from my position. His light company is to contest the ground in front of the enemy column to buy some time for the rest of the regiment to form up. Go!’

Somerset tipped his gloved hand to the brim of his hat, swerved his horse round and spurred it down the track. Arthur turned his attention back to the enemy. The glint of a gilded eagle revealed the position of the main column, following in the wake of the skirmishers. The sound of hooves pounding over the ground caused Arthur to turn. Somerset was returning, and beyond him Wallace rode at the head of the men of his light company. The men were breathing hard, sweat dripping from underneath the brims of their shakos.

Wallace judged the spot where he should be, then ordered the men to fan out over a hundred yards behind the crest. When they were ready, he sent them forward. Arthur watched as they crested the ridge and came in view of the French skirmishers, not fifty paces below them. An enemy officer shouted, muskets rose up and several shots cracked out. None of them hit their targets and the light breeze that had picked up along the ridge quickly dispersed the puffs of gunpowder smoke. The light company began to fire back and the air filled with a steady crackle of muskets. The skirmishers halted, and behind them the head of the column slowed momentarily as the leading ranks anticipated the coming action.

The following companies of the Eighty-eighth began to file past. Wallace stopped the second company further down the track and the rest of the regiment took up their position in the line, shuffling into place, two ranks deep, facing the crest. Arthur urged his horse into a trot down on to the track, and rode up to join Wallace’s men.

Wallace edged his horse out in front of the line and took a deep breath. He shouted above the sounds of musket fire, slightly dampened by the crest of the ridge. ‘Now, men! Mind what you have to do. It is as I trained you. Don’t just poke your bayonets at ’em, but push them home, right up to the muzzle!’

His soldiers grinned and some let out a bloodthirsty cheer, until Wallace walked his horse into a gap between the companies at the centre of the line and drew his sword. ‘Fix bayonets!’

The sergeants repeated the order and the deadly lengths of steel clattered out, to be fixed over the ends of the muzzles and twisted to lock them in place.

‘The Eighty-eighth will advance!’ Wallace swept his sword towards the crest and the line stepped forward, pacing up the last few yards before revealing themselves to the enemy. Arthur and Somerset followed the line as far as the crest. A short distance ahead of them Wallace halted his men, then ordered them to fire their first volley. The enemy skirmishers were falling back, and as the muzzles of the redcoats swept up and foreshortened they went to ground, leaving their comrades in the main column anxiously staring into the face of over five hundred weapons.

‘Fire!’

The range was close, and despite their recent exertions the aim of the redcoats was steady. More than fifty of the leading Frenchmen went down, knocked back into the ranks of their comrades and bringing the column to a halt. Before the French officers could give the order to fire a volley in return,Wallace leaped down from his saddle and cupping his spare hand to his mouth he bellowed, ‘Charge!’

The cry was instantly taken up and with a savage roar the Eighty-eighth dashed forward, trampling over the heather, down the slope, directly at the waiting Frenchmen. Some of the latter had the presence of mind to discharge their muskets into the oncoming attackers, while a handful of others hurriedly fixed their bayonets. Then the redcoats were in amongst them, stabbing out, or clubbing with the butts of their muskets. The momentum of their charge carried them deep into the leading ranks of the column, and they fell on the enemy in a wild frenzy. Arthur could see Wallace, still wearing his cocked hat, at the head of the charge, slashing out with his sword and grasping the barrel of his pistol as he used the heavy butt as a club. In less than a minute the first French battalion broke, turning back and scrambling down the slope. The following formation had halted and Arthur watched as the officers and sergeants began to extend the line, in readiness to open fire. The real test of Wallace and his men was about to come, and Arthur felt his pulse quicken as he watched the tangle of men fighting across the slope directly in front of him. If they blundered into a volley fired by the second French regiment, the charge would be stopped in its tracks and there was every risk that the men of the Eighty-eighth would be flung back.

As the men of the broken regiment fled down the slope, Wallace halted and shouted an order to his men to halt and form ranks. To Arthur’s relief the other British officers and their sergeants and corporals echoed the order and within moments the redcoats had stopped their pursuit and hurried back to re-join their companies. As soon as the men of the Eighty-eighth had formed up Wallace gave the order to reload, and then advance down the slope to within fifty paces of the second French regiment. Despite standing their ground, the enemy ranks had become disordered as the fugitives from the first charge thrust their way through. With their view of the British obscured there was little that the second battalion could do to bring their muskets to bear, and only a handful of men fired their shots before they faced the full fury of the second massed British volley.

Again the muskets blasted their hail of lead, and again bloody carnage tore through the leading French companies, dropping them on the spot. With a hoarse cry, Wallace again charged with his men. This time Arthur saw that the fighting was more desperate, more confused, and the two sides were soon mixed up in a mad flurry of stabbing bayonets and swinging muskets. It was an insane, savage fight, but once more the British had the uphill advantage and Wallace and his men pushed the French back until they too could take no more, and turned to run, streaming down the slope, deaf to the enraged shouts of their officers attempting to rally them.

With the leading formations in chaos the commander of the French division had little choice but to halt his attack. The remaining battalions began to give ground, retreating back down the slope towards the rapidly thinning mist that obscured the foot of the ridge. Wallace re-formed his men again, and as they watched the enemy division recoil they let out a triumphant cheer. Wallace indulged them briefly before calling for silence once again. Arthur clicked his tongue and edged his horse down the slope towards the Eighty-eighth. The ground was covered with bodies, sprawled in the grass and heather. Most were alive, and many of the injured lay groaning and writhing pathetically as they clutched hands to their wounds. They would have to be tended to later, Arthur reminded himself. Once the battle was over.

He reined in beside Colonel Wallace and nodded his head. Wallace was still breathing hard and the edge of his sword was streaked with blood. Arthur smiled.

‘By God, Wallace, I tell you, I have never witnessed a more gallant charge.’

Wallace cleared his throat.‘Thank you, sir. My boys did well enough. What are your orders?’

‘You’ve done your work here, for now.’ Arthur briefly surveyed the foot of the ridge where the mist had all but dispersed. The beaten division was re-forming well back from the slope, while a battery of guns was trundling forward on to a slight rise, opposite Wallace’s position. ‘Best pull back to the reverse slope or the enemy guns will use the Eighty-eighth for target practice.’

Wallace glanced at the guns and pursed his lips.‘The range is long, and it might serve the men well to face up to a small dose of artillery fire.’

‘I think they have proved their mettle well enough. Pull ’em back, Wallace, directly.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Arthur wheeled his horse round and headed back in the direction of Busaco. Below, to the east of the brow of the hill on which the convent stood, he could see more enemy columns making for the road that led up the slope. This would be the main attack, he realised. The assault on the ridge to the south of Busaco was a diversion. Massйna intended to draw off allied forces to protect their flank, before throwing his main blow at the convent.

By the time Arthur and Somerset returned to the brow of the hill overlooking the village of Sula, the riflemen and the battery positioned there were already engaging the French skirmishers advancing up the road. Puffs of smoke from the scattered trees and boulders on either side of the road marked their advance as they picked their way towards the village. The British returned fire from the buildings they had fortified on the edge of Sula and every so often one of the guns would boom out as their crew spotted a cluster of enemy skirmishers that merited a blast of case shot. Even as Arthur watched he saw that the French were steadily advancing and would soon reach the village.

‘Those men cannot hold position, sir,’ said Somerset.

‘No, I suppose not.’

There was a brief pause before Somerset cleared his throat and continued. ‘Shall I order Craufurd to send men to reinforce Sula, sir?’

Arthur shook his head. ‘Craufurd knows his business. He will act in good time.’

Arthur had spoken confidently, but he hoped that he had not misjudged the commander of the Light Division. While generally a fine officer, Craufurd had an unnerving tendency towards over-confidence on occasion. Fortunately, the gun crews had ceased firing, and they begun to limber their cannon as the riflemen intensified their covering fire to slow down the enemy skirmishers. Then, as the horse teams trundled out of the village and up the road towards the convent, the green-jacketed riflemen fell back in pairs to re-join their division. From where he sat on his horse Arthur could see the men of the Fifty-second lying down just behind the crest of the ridge as they waited for orders. Before them stood Craufurd on horseback, calmly watching as the French skirmishers swept through the village and then waited as the main column climbed up to join them. There was a pause before Arthur heard the faint rumble of thousands of boots scraping over the dried ruts of the road, and then the main body of the enemy emerged from the trees a short distance from Sula. There were three columns in the attacking force, each advancing on a company frontage of little more than a hundred men.

With standards held high, but breathing heavily from their effort to ascend the ridge, the French marched steadily over the open ground just before the crest. Ahead of the middle column Craufurd held his ground, defiantly facing the enemy.

‘By God,’ Somerset murmured. ‘He’d better do something soon, or the Frogs will skewer him where he stands.’

Arthur did not reply and remained still as he watched the spectacle. Some of the French officers had placed their hats over the ends of the swords and were waving them high overhead as they shouted encouragement to their men. There was a band at the head of the nearest column and they struck up as they approached the crest, the strident trill of brass instruments accompanied by the pounding rhythm of drums. And still Craufurd did not flinch, even as the leading enemy ranks closed to within no more than thirty paces. Arthur felt his pulse quicken and willed Craufurd to act.

Then, when the enemy was within pistol range, Craufurd snatched off his hat and twisted round to bellow at his men. ‘Now, lads! Avenge the death of Sir John Moore!’

Arthur could not help smiling faintly. The Fifty-second had been Moore’s regiment for a long time, and Craufurd’s words were bound to fire their hearts. All along the crest of the ridge the men of that regiment, and the others of Craufurd’s division, scrambled to their feet and stood ready, muskets grasped firmly in their hands. Before them, close enough to read the steely expression in the British soldiers’ eyes, the French columns stumbled to an abrupt halt. The jaunty tune that the band had been playing broke down into a cacophony before it died away completely. The officers stood frozen, their swords slipping down to their sides as they stared at the ranks of their foe that had sprung up right in front of their eyes.

A few simple commands echoed down the British line and the muskets swung up, the firing hammers clicked back, and then the order to fire instantaneously dissolved into the roar of the first volley as thousands of tiny flames darted from the muzzles of the Light Division’s muskets and rifles. The effect was even more devastating than the one that had repulsed the attack along the ridge a short time earlier. At such a close range, far more shots struck home, cutting down the heads of all three columns like a well-honed scythe slashing through stalks of wheat. Craufurd did not order another volley, but immediately commanded his men to charge. With a bloodthirsty roar the Light Division swept across the crest, the bayonets of the leading rank lowered towards the reeling Frenchmen. Then they were in amongst the enemy, stabbing, clubbing and kicking like savage furies, sparing no one as they drove Massйna’s soldiers before them. Some fought back, but they were too few and too isolated to stem the flow of redcoats, and were swiftly struck down and killed where they lay on the ground.

It took less than a minute for the charge to break the enemy attack. As Arthur watched, the enemy columns crumbled as one formation after another dissolved and the men fell back down the slope, desperate to escape the wrath of the British soldiers sweeping towards them.

‘So much for Massйna,’ Somerset grinned. ‘He won’t be trying that again in a hurry, sir.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Arthur agreed. ‘He has been taught a lesson sure enough. But if he doesn’t attack the ridge again today, then you can be sure he will move to outflank us, there to the north.’ He nodded towards the end of the ridge.

Somerset turned to examine the clear ground beyond.‘Then we will be forced to fall back, sir.’

‘Of course we will.’

Somerset looked at his commander with a surprised expression.‘Was that always your plan, sir? Then why face the enemy here?’

‘I felt it would do our men good to see the French run. Certainly, it will have stiffened the backs of our Portuguese troops, eh?’ Arthur smiled.‘Not to mention shaken the confidence of Massйna and his army.’

Somerset pursed his lips and nodded as he turned to watch the Light Division pursuing the broken enemy columns down the slope. Craufurd let his men continue for some distance before he had the recall sounded. Such was the ferocious discipline of their commander that his men responded to the trumpet’s shrill notes at once, and began to climb back towards the crest where they re-formed their companies in high spirits, slapping each other on the arm, and jeering after the enemy, until their sergeants shouted at them to still their tongues and stand to attention.

For the rest of the day Arthur watched the French lines at the bottom of the ridge, but there was no further attempt to attack. Instead he observed a column begin snaking away to his left and knew that his position on the ridge would have to be abandoned. He turned to Somerset.

‘Pass the word to the army. We fall back across the Mondego and march towards the lines of Torres Vedras.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Arthur detected a note of disappointment in Somerset’s response and offered him a smile.‘We have done our work here.’ He gestured towards the French bodies littering the slope.‘Massйna’s nose has been bloodied, and there’s something else.’

‘Sir?’

Arthur’s smiled faded a little. ‘Now the newspapers in London will have proof that the army has the measure of the French. There is no question that, man for man, we have the advantage.’

‘And yet we must retreat, sir.’

‘Retreat? Yes, that is how some will see it. But I am content to give ground to Massйna for now. He will be brought to a halt before our defences, and there he will starve, until he is forced to retreat.’ Arthur was silent for a moment before he nodded with satisfaction. ‘I have not the slightest doubt that it is now only a question of time before the tide turns in our favour.’

Chapter 17

Lisbon, January 1811

‘Amateur dramatics?’ Arthur frowned. ‘What the devil is Massйna playing at?’

He sat back in his chair by the fireplace and folded his hands together, tapping his index fingers against his lips as he considered the news Somerset had brought him from one of the outposts on the first line of defences. ‘Tell me again, what exactly did Massйna’s officer have to say?’

Somerset was standing just inside the door to the office, and he quickly recalled the note he had received. ‘Massйna conveyed an invitation to our officers to attend a performance of Candide being staged at Marshal Massйna’s headquarters in five days’ time. Any of our gentlemen who accept are assured of free passage through the French lines.’

‘By God.’ Arthur shook his head. ‘One could be forgiven for thinking that England and France had been at war for the best part of eighteen years.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset nodded, used by now to his superior’s sense of irony. ‘Would you like me to send orders to decline the invitation?’

Arthur thought for a moment. There had already been some criticism of his actions following the battle at Busaco. The Times had wondered why the British army had not followed up its victory over Massйna and hounded the French back into Spain. Despite that, Arthur was confident that he had the advantage over the enemy. After one bloody assault on the lines of Torres Vedras the French had been forced to camp on the bare ground before the British defences while Massйna pondered his next move. The French had managed to survive on dwindling rations for the last three months, but soon they would be forced to retreat or starve.

It might not be the most glorious manner of inflicting a reverse on the enemy, Arthur mused, but it was certainly the least costly. He would have to hope that the more enlightened politicians back in England appreciated his strategy and gave him the time and support that he needed to erode and then crush the French forces in the Peninsula.

He lowered his hands and smiled at Somerset. ‘We must indulge Massйna. The longer he remains in Portugal, the more his army will wither. Pass the word to all commands in the first line of the defences that their officers may accept the invitation. I will, however, be expecting full reports from any man who crosses into French lines for social purposes. They are under strict orders not to get drunk and to keep their wits about them. Tell them to keep their eyes and ears open for any information that might be useful to us.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘If there are any further attempts to fraternise then I will need to approve them. Make sure that is understood.’

‘Indeed, sir. And what if our officers should wish to reciprocate?’

Arthur frowned slightly. ‘It would not be wise to allow Massйna’s men to investigate our defences too closely. Tell our gentlemen that they may arrange hunts, dinners and other entertainments, as long as they take place beyond the limits of our front line.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset paused an instant before he continued. ‘Will that be all, sir?’

Arthur nodded, and then tapped his hand on his thigh. ‘Oh, one thing. Have the latest despatches arrived from London yet?’

‘They reached headquarters at noon, sir. I haven’t had a chance to open them. Do you wish me to see to it now?’

‘No, bring them in as they are, then start drafting my orders concerning that invitation from Massйna.’

Somerset bowed his head and left the office. Arthur stared blankly into the hearth for a moment and then laughed drily. ‘A play indeed! Strange fellows, these French.’

He built the fire up while he waited for Somerset to return. Outside, the winter sky was grey over Lisbon, and through the long windows Arthur could see the harbour below, packed with cargo ships plying their trade between the Portuguese capital and their colonies and customers scattered across the world. There was also a convoy of ships from England unloading military supplies for the army. The supplies were welcome enough,Arthur mused, but he needed reinforcements far more urgently. More men, as well as more money. The army’s pay was already three months in arrears, and the debt owed to Portuguese farmers and grain merchants continued to grow. The Portuguese civilians regarded their redcoat guests with guarded enthusiasm. The same ships that brought supplies to the army could just as easily be used to evacuate the soldiers if the French broke through the lines, or the British government lost heart and ordered their army home.

The latter was a very real possibility, Arthur knew. The Prince of Wales and his Whig friends were all for abandoning Portugal, arguing that it was a waste of thinly stretched resources and did little to unseat Bonaparte. The thought made Arthur feel weary and frustrated. While his army held its ground in Portugal, and offered inspiration to the Portuguese and the Spanish, the enemy was obliged to commit over two hundred thousand soldiers in the Peninsula - soldiers who would not be available for Bonaparte to use elsewhere. The constant erosion of his forces by partisans, disease, hunger and battle required a steady flow of replacements, slowly bleeding the enemy to death. It was a long-term strategy, and Arthur prayed that the British government was wise enough to understand its efficacy.

The door to the office opened again and Somerset entered, clutching a thick leather folder under his arm. Arthur nodded to the low table in front of him and Somerset crossed the room to lay the folder down. Flipping it open, he cleared his throat and briefly summarised the contents.

‘Correspondence from London, official and personal - unopened; the latest reports from our cavalry patrols, weekly strength returns from each brigade, and more requests for payment from Portuguese suppliers. Will that be all?’

‘For now.’ Arthur nodded towards the door. Once his aide had left and quietly closed the door behind him Arthur briefly glanced over the bills presented by the Portuguese. There was sufficient gold in the army’s war chest to pay a proportion of the bills, enough to keep the suppliers happy for another month. He dipped his pen into the inkwell and made a note at the bottom of the first bill, then placed them to one side. The strength returns offered some good news. Despite the winter, many of the sick and injured from the last season’s campaign had recovered and re-joined the ranks, bringing his army up to thirty thousand effectives. With his Portuguese units, Arthur had over fifty thousand men ready to take the fight to the enemy the moment the opportunity arose.

He turned his attention to the correspondence, opening those letters marked official first. These were from the various departments dealing with the provision of engineers, supplies and artillery, all of whom claimed to be doing their utmost to meet his requisitions. While they recognised the urgency of his situation, they reminded the general that his was not the only call on their resources and his needs would have to be weighed against those of other commanders. Arthur shook his head irritably. It should be clear to the dunderheads in England that his army was the vanguard of the entire nation’s effort against the Corsican Tyrant. Resources should flow to the very tip of the sword that was lodged in Bonaparte’s side, not languish in warehouses far from the field of battle. He made a note to Somerset to send more requests, couched in far more robust language, and then turned his attention to the last letter.

As he picked it up he felt his heart sink. It was from Kitty. On the eve of Busaco he had written her a terse note detailing his finances back in England. He had come to have little faith in her ability to manage the family’s affairs and had spelled out what she must do if he was killed. Since then he had received a steady flow of letters asking his advice on all manner of minutiae. This time, she wanted to know if she could buy new curtains for their house in London.

‘Curtains?’ Arthur muttered. ‘Bloody curtains be damned!’

His hand spasmed momentarily as he clutched the letter, threatening to crumple the paper with its spidery writing into a tight ball. He took a deep breath, smoothed the paper out and laid it down on the table. Thoughts of Kitty and her inability to cope with the household in his absence weighed on his heart with the dull mass of a lead ingot. Their marriage was the gravest mistake he had ever made, Arthur accepted. But it had been his choice, and he could not reverse the decision, nor indeed was he prepared to admit to his error in public. Therefore he was bound to her while they both lived, for better or worse. He sighed. Then he reached for a fresh sheet of paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and composed his reply.

Through the rest of the month, and on into February, the officers of both armies met frequently, enjoying their social and sporting events. Arthur kept his distance from such activities as he deemed it inappropriate for the commander of the British army to become involved. It took little imagination to picture the scandal that would result in London if it was reported that Arthur and Massйna had met socially. Accordingly, Arthur limited himself to offering an exchange of newspapers with the enemy general. The pages of the Paris press were filled with accounts of the activities of the imperial court as Bonaparte showed off his new bride to his people and to dignitaries from across Europe. At first Arthur had been surprised by the news of the marriage. Then he realised that the Austrians had little choice in the matter, following their humiliating defeat by Bonaparte at Wagram. Now it was rumoured that Bonaparte might be expecting an heir in the spring. That was ill news, Arthur reflected. If Bonaparte could establish a dynasty then there was no knowing how long his poisonous influence would endure on the continent.

The temperature rose in the first days of March and thick fog and mists lingered over the Portuguese landscape. Arthur rode to the front line to inspect the forts and lost his way several times as he struggled to follow the crude communication roads prepared by the engineers to link them. Most of the forts were garrisoned by Portuguese troops commanded by British officers. The British infantry were in camp a few miles behind the first line, ready to respond to any attack the enemy made. A short distance to the east of Torres Vedras he stopped at a post commanded by an officer in his forties. Colonel Cameron was typical of those who had transferred to the Portuguese army. Previously, he had been a British captain without any useful connections or enough income to buy promotion. By taking the transfer he had rank and a higher income, as long as the war lasted. He saluted as Arthur entered the fort, and Arthur touched the brim of his hat in response. ‘Good day to you. Colonel Cameron, isn’t it?’

‘Aye, sir. My apologies for the lack of protocol, sir.’

‘It is no matter,’ Arthur replied as he dismounted. ‘The visit is informal. How many men have you here, Colonel?’

‘A battalion, sir. Almost at full strength. The lads are in good spirits, though they’d be happier if the Frogs had some fight in ’em and tested our defences.’

‘That decision is down to Marshal Massйna, alas. After Busaco I suspect that he is in no hurry to be repulsed again.’

Colonel Cameron grinned. ‘If he comes, the lads will send him on his way soon enough, sir. They’re game all right.’

He gestured proudly round the interior of the fort and Arthur noted that his men were well turned out and their wooden shelters were neatly set out by companies. Most were clustered around their camp fires quietly talking or cleaning their kit. Up on the ramparts and in the towers those on duty were keeping watch on the dense banks of fog below for any sign of the enemy.

‘Your battalion looks like a fine body of men, Colonel.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Cameron smiled proudly.

‘Anything to report?’

‘Sir?’

‘Have you noticed any sign of any unusual activity by the enemy?’

‘No, sir. In fact they’ve been quiet today. Usually, our pickets exchange greetings in the morning, but there was no sign of them this morning. Either they’ve been ordered to keep silent, or they have been posted further back.’

Arthur felt a vague twinge of anxiety at the colonel’s words. Cameron’s explanations might be sound enough, but the failure to contact the enemy’s pickets could equally well indicate something else.

‘Colonel, I want you to send a patrol towards the French lines. They are not to engage anyone, but keep going until they see some sign of the enemy, then report back.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Somerset!’ Arthur turned round and strode towards his aide. ‘What’s the nearest cavalry unit to here?’

Somerset thought briefly. ‘The Light Dragoons, sir. At Mafra.’

‘Ride to them. I want them out across the lines as soon as possible. They are to confirm the location of the French and report back here at once. And send a messenger to headquarters. I want the order to go out to the army to be ready to concentrate and advance directly.’

‘Yes, sir. But in this fog we’re going to find it hard to manoeuvre.’

‘That may be,’ Arthur conceded. ‘However, if Massйna has stolen a march on us then the army will need to move swiftly to close up on him. Let’s hope that it’s a false alarm and that the French have merely fallen back a short distance. My concern is that Massйna may elude us and retreat to Spain.’

‘Surely, if he retreats, then we have won our victory without having to shed a drop of blood, sir?’

Arthur looked at him sharply. ‘You fail to understand the wider strategy, Somerset. If we allow Massйna to retreat then we merely prolong the struggle. It was my intention to starve his army before our lines and then attack him when I judged that the moment was right. If Massйna has begun to retreat, then that means that his men have reached the end of their endurance. We must not let him escape. We must pursue him and defeat his army utterly. Then we will have a victory that will shorten the war. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. It is important that you grasp the need for speed in our reaction to Massйna’s moves. You must impress that on the commanders of every brigade in the army. Now go.’

Once Somerset had left, Arthur made his way up into one of the watchtowers, together with Cameron. From their elevated position the view over the ground in front of the fort was still obscured by fog, above which only the tops of hills were visible, like great leviathans rising from a milky sea. Arthur strained his eyes and ears but there was no movement, and not even the faintest sounds from the enemy camp. Where he might expect to hear the sounds of horses, farrier’s hammers or the thud of axes, there was silence, broken only by the cawing of crows.

He turned to Cameron.‘I can’t see a thing in this fog. Assemble your Light Company. By the way, do you have a pocket compass?’

‘A compass, sir? Why yes.’

‘Good; we shall need it. Leave word for my aide that we have headed due north. If he returns before we get back he is to follow on and report to me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

A quarter of an hour later Arthur, Cameron and the men of the Light Company filed quietly out of the fort and down the slope of the rise on which it had been constructed. All unnecessary kit had been left behind and each man carried only his musket and ammunition in a haversack. Ten men spread out ahead of the rest of the company as they advanced into the fog, keeping in sight of each other. They advanced cautiously, alert to any sound or movement ahead as they crept over the ground that had been cleared the previous year to deny any cover to the enemy. They had gone perhaps a mile when the grey outline of a burned farmhouse emerged from the fog. The company halted while two men went forward to investigate. They were gone for a few minutes before they returned and reported to Cameron. He listened, nodding, and then translated for Arthur.

‘The farm has been abandoned. There are the remains of a fire there, but it appears to have been built up and then allowed to burn itself out. They left a wagon to burn as well.’

‘A wagon, you say.’ Arthur thought briefly. The wagon might have been awaiting repair, or it might have been abandoned if there were insufficient draught animals to pull it. The fact that it had been burned meant that the enemy did not want the vehicle to fall into the hands of the British. ‘Let’s continue forward.’