The Fields of Death

Somerset pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘That’s not what our agents are saying. There is a wealth of rumour and scores of letters found on prisoners, or taken from the enemy dead, that make reference to a great defeat.’

‘Rumours, that is all. Would you have me gamble the outcome of this campaign upon the thin vapour of these rumours of yours? Well?’

‘No, sir.’

‘No. Then until we have more definite proof, we shall assume that the army may need to fight a battle, or fall back, at a moment’s notice. The men must not be allowed to become too comfortable.’

Somerset was chastened, but made one last effort. ‘What about the newspaper reports?’

Arthur shook his head.‘I’d sooner trust the words I read in an English newspaper than a French one. That is how little stock I put in your newspaper reports, Somerset. We need intelligence from a more reliable source. Speaking of which, have we taken any prisoners of note?’

‘Yes, sir. Several colonels, and the commander of a brigade, General Lapessiиre.’

‘Good.’Arthur tapped his fingers lightly on his lips for a moment and then nodded to himself. ‘Very well, I shall entertain Lapessiиre here tonight. I want Beresford, Hill and Picton to join us. Have the best cook in the port prepare the meal, and make sure there is ample wine.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Somerset nodded. ‘Is that all?’

‘For now.’ Arthur hardened his expression. ‘Bring me the butcher’s bill, and the enemy losses, as soon as you can.’

‘Yes, sir. Where shall I find you?’

‘The mayor’s suite. I take it he has a bath?’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘Then I shall bathe.’ Arthur scratched his cheek. ‘And shave. I shall not provide General Lapessiиre with a poor model of an English gentleman. We have standards to uphold, Somerset. As much before the enemy as before our own men. I will not have some damned Frog looking down his nose at me, by God!’

Somerset looked up as Arthur entered the office, late in the evening. ‘How did you get on with our guest, sir?’

‘He was amenable to a somewhat indirect approach, once he was well into his cups,’ said Arthur. ‘He told us what we needed to know. It seems that the rumours are correct. Bonaparte has received a bloody nose and we have him on the run. Better still we know that he will not interfere with our operations here in the south of France. Indeed, it is likely that he will denude Marshal Soult of forces in order to build up his main strength to face the advance of the Russians, Austrians and Prussians. That leaves us a free hand against Soult. Just as well, since we have but a small numerical advantage over him. If he continues to fight defensively then it is likely that we shall suffer casualties at a higher rate than the French.’ Arthur thought a moment and shook his head. ‘I do not wish to become drawn into such a process of attrition.’

‘Then what do you propose, sir?’

‘We hold our ground for the most part, and take what small gains we can until the spring. If we can coincide our advance with that of our northern allies, then what is left of Bonaparte’s forces will be stretched to breaking point.’

There was a loud knock at the door, and an officer entered. He looked nervous and strode quickly towards the table. By the light of the candles flickering in the candelabra Arthur saw that it was Colonel Whitely, the commander of the army’s provosts. Whitely was a thickset officer, one of the rare men who had risen from the ranks. He cleared his throat as he addressed Arthur.

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I think you need to come with me.’

‘Why, what on earth has happened? Out with it, man.’

‘Yes, sir. It’s the Spanish troops. They’re looting one of the local towns. Their officers are doing nothing to stop them, and I don’t have enough men to restore order. It’s turning right nasty, sir, so it is.’

Arthur sighed heavily. He closed his eyes briefly and then stood up. ‘Come, Whitely, you’d better take me there directly.’

The streets of Ascain were crowded with Spanish soldiers as Arthur rode into the town, accompanied by Whitely and twenty of his men. Several of the houses were on fire, and nearly all the rest had been broken into and plundered. The ragged Spaniards had taken the opportunity to gorge themselves on food and wine, and now helped themselves to gold, silver and any other items of value that they could find. Some of the local people had clearly tried to resist and several bodies lay stretched out on the cobbled streets, beaten or bayoneted to death. As the small party of Englishmen rode into the town square Arthur saw a jeering mob gathered to one side. A shrill scream cut through the cold night air and he caught a glimpse of a woman trying to break through the soldiers surrounding her. One of them grabbed the torn dress she had clasped to her chest and wrenched it away, baring her breasts. There was a cruel cheer and then someone knocked her to the ground, out of sight.

‘Like I said, sir,’ Whitely muttered. ‘They’re out of control.’

Arthur reined in and looked round at the Spaniards. ‘It’s only to be expected. After enduring the depredations of the French invaders for so many years they now have the chance to turn the tables. The fact that the locals are blameless is irrelevant to them. Besides, their own government rarely pays or feeds them. They see this as their hard-won right, no doubt.’

Colonel Whitely looked warily at his commander. ‘Nevertheless, sir, your standing orders are that no looting is to be permitted, nor any violence to the locals.’

‘I know.’ Arthur sucked in his breath. ‘Where is the divisional commander, General Longa?’

‘He’s settled himself and his staff in the local hotel, sir.’Whitely raised his hand and pointed at a large, neatly whitewashed building fronting the square. ‘Over there.’

They rode across the square and dismounted. Leaving their horses in the charge of Whitely’s men, Arthur and Whitely entered the hotel. There were two soldiers guarding the entrance. One was already asleep, head slumped on his chest as he stood wedged into a corner to one side of the door. The other man brought his musket up to the salute, wobbling slightly as he fought to stay on his feet. He stank of wine, much of which had been spilled down the grubby white facings of his jacket. Inside the entrance hall they saw the torn remains of a tricolour on the floor, and a large painting of the French Emperor hanging above the counter had been slashed by swords. The sounds of shouting came through one of the doors leading off the hall and they made for that, entering a large dining room. The tables had been pushed together along one side of the room and General Longa and his officers were feasting from plates of cold meats and cured sausages, accompanied by wine poured into beer mugs. Some had already passed out, heads slumped on the table in front of them, but Longa, a tall, handsome man with thinning grey hair, was holding court at the head of the company. He smiled brilliantly as he caught sight of Arthur and rose to his feet so that he could bow elegantly in greeting.

‘My dear Duke, will you join us?’

‘Alas, no,’ Arthur replied evenly.‘My duties do not permit me to take pleasure at the moment. May I speak with you, alone?’

‘Alone?’ A frown flickered across Longa’s face before he nodded.‘But of course.’

Arthur gestured to Whitely to stay where he was and led the Spaniard to the far side of the dining room where there was a window overlooking the square. Arthur gestured to the men outside, their drunken expressions lit up by the impromptu bonfires they had made from furniture taken from the townspeople. ‘Your men are out of control, General Longa.’

‘They are celebrating our victory, sir.’

‘They are committing theft, rape and murder.’

Longa stared at them and shrugged. ‘Spoils of war.’

‘I gave orders that there was to be no mistreatment of French civilians. Why are you permitting your men to indulge in these atrocities?’

‘They will not obey their officers, sir. I will not put the lives of my officers in danger by asking them to confront the mob.’ Longa turned towards Arthur with a cold expression. ‘Besides, my men are entitled to revenge for what the French have done to our people.’

‘Indeed they are, but they must exact their revenge on the battlefield. They have no grievence against civilians. Now, General, you must bring them under control. Use force if necessary, but put an end to this disgraceful display.’

‘As you did at Badajoz?’ Longa shook his head and did not try to hide the tone of contempt that crept into his voice. ‘There, your troops treated my people as if they were a conquered enemy. As spoils of war. I do not think that I need a lecture from you on how my men should behave, sir.’

Arthur felt a surge of rage as he stood before the Spaniard. He would not tolerate such insubordination from one of his officers and the urge to put the fellow in his place was almost overwhelming. He fought down his anger and took a calming breath before he responded.

‘Look here, General Longa, it profits us little to discuss past deeds, however regrettable we may find them. We have to look forward. Every battle we have fought, every sacrifice we have made, has been to bring us to this point. We are on the cusp of defeating our enemy. The enemy is not France, but Bonaparte. We are here to liberate France from tyranny, the same tyranny that threatens the rest of Europe. If you allow your men to mistreat the French people, then you will drive them into Bonaparte’s arms. That is why you must put a stop to this, before you and your soldiers ruin us all.’

Longa stared back at him, then out of the window, and waved a hand in a helpless gesture.‘Sir, I understand what you say, but I doubt that they will.’

‘Then I will be obliged to have a provost officer restore order by force.’

‘Would you really do that? And risk a divided army?’

Arthur gritted his teeth. General Longa had a point. Such division might pose an even greater threat to the allied army than the alienation of the French population. He was caught between two impossible situations. The thought tormented him. Here, at the very hour of ascendancy over Bonaparte, having won great victories, the allied army might be the cause of its own downfall. Not for the want of courage or perseverance, but for the lack of sufficient discipline far from the battlefield. As he considered the wretched difficulty Longa’s soldiers had placed him in, a third course of action occurred to Arthur. He nodded to himself. There was no question about what he must do, no matter the disadvantage it imposed upon the allied army. He cleared his throat and addressed Longa.

‘You are right. There is nothing we can do to stop this. However, at first light, I want your division to withdraw from Ascain and await further orders.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Longa replied with a relieved expression. ‘It is for the best.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Arthur turned towards the door and beckoned to Colonel Whitely. ‘Come, we must leave this place.’

‘Are you certain there is no other way, sir?’ asked Somerset as he lowered the draft order Arthur had penned for him.

‘I have made my decision,’ Arthur replied firmly. ‘The only Spanish division that we can rely on is that of Morillo. The rest will be sent back across the border. If the Spanish government refuses to see to the sustenance of their own soldiers then I am damned if I will do their job for them.’

‘But, sir, this will reduce the army by twenty thousand men.’

‘That is so,’ Arthur conceded. ‘But I must have men I can rely on. Men who will do as they are ordered. Otherwise we provide a rod for our own backs, Somerset. If you had only borne witness to the scenes in Ascain you would have no doubt that we cannot afford to have such men march with us. They must be sent home. At once.’

Somerset puffed out his cheeks. ‘As you wish, my lord.’

Left alone in the mayor’s office, Arthur turned to stare out of the window. Outside, the sky was covered with dark grey clouds and an icy sleet was falling on the port. At a stroke he had reduced his numerical advantage over Marshal Soult to parity, and there would be a hard fight before the French were compelled to surrender.

Chapter 46

Villefranque, 10 December 1813

The right flank of the allied army had crossed to the east bank of the river Nive at Ustaritz with little trouble, brushing aside a small force of infantry. After the exchange of a few shots the enemy had hurriedly retreated north towards the main body of Soult’s army in camp close to Bayonne. By nightfall five divisions had crossed the river using a hastily repaired bridge and advanced four miles downriver towards the enemy. After a detailed inspection of the French defences to the south and west of Bayonne in the last days of November, Arthur had quickly realised that a frontal assault on the town would be too costly. Instead he had decided to shift his main strength across the Nive and attempt to trap Soult against the sea. There was a risk that the enemy might attack the allies as they crossed the river, so Arthur had tasked his remaining three divisions with making a feint along the west bank to distract Soult.

Arthur had given command of the right flank to General Hill and had joined Hill at dusk to survey the enemy positions in front of Bayonne. It had rained hard during the early days of December and the ground was waterlogged, quickly turning to mud as the allied columns trudged through the glutinous slop that covered the surfaces of the roads and tracks crossing the countryside between the sea and the Nive.

General Hill fastened the clasp at the top of his coat as a fresh shower spattered down around them. ‘This is foul ground to manoeuvre an army over.’

‘True,’ Arthur conceded. ‘But it applies to both sides. Soult and his men are as mired in this as we are. There will be precious little chance to spring any surprises on each other. If we can push him back and contain him in Bayonne, then the army can go into winter quarters while the French are besieged. Even if we don’t starve them out, they’ll be in poor shape once spring arrives.’

‘I trust you are right,’ Hill said gently and then turned to one of his aides.‘Pass the word to the leading formations. We’ll halt here and camp for the night. Have strong outposts sent forward to keep an eye on the enemy.’ He turned back to Arthur. ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir, I must make arrangements to establish my headquarters.’

‘Of course,’ Arthur nodded.

The two men touched the brims of their hats and then Hill and his staff wheeled away and made for a cluster of farm buildings a short distance away. Arthur sat for a while, watching as Hill’s columns began to spread out across the countryside. Half a mile in front of them stood the rearguard of the French army, formed up and ready to ward off any attacks that their enemy might make before night closed in. A cough to his side distracted Arthur’s attention.

‘What is it, Somerset?’

‘Might I ask what your plans are for tonight, sir? Are we to stay with Hill, or return to General Hope’s side of the river?’

Arthur thought for a moment. General Hope had only recently arrived from England and Arthur had yet to form an impression of his abilities as a field commander. As long as Hope carried out his orders and did not pursue his feint too far, and then withdrew and dug in, he and his men should not come to any grief on the other bank of the Nive. In any case, the latest reports from Arthur’s cavalry patrols indicated that the bulk of Soult’s forces were east of the river, facing Hill.

‘We shall stay here tonight. I wish to observe Hill’s attack towards Bayonne in the morning.’ Arthur turned towards Somerset and in the failing light he saw that his aide was shivering. ‘If you feel the need for some shelter, I suggest that you find us some accommodation for the night at Hill’s headquarters.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll make arrangements directly.’ Somerset turned his horse away and spurred it after Hill and his staff. Arthur turned back towards the north and watched the enemy long enough to see them begin to light their camp fires. The French rearguard fell back over the brow of a low hill and left a thin screen of sentries to keep an eye on their enemy. There would be no fighting for what little was left of the day, and on into the night. The men on both sides were tired after months of campaigning, and the uncomfortable conditions of the winter months quenched any ardour for battle.

Satisfied that his army was secure for the night, Arthur tugged his reins and trotted his horse towards the farmhouse. All around him in the thin light of dusk many of the men of his army searched for firewood while their comrades set about finding shelter, or erecting tents where the ground was dry enough to hold a tent peg in position. The rain was falling steadily now, short steel-grey rods plunging down from the dark sagging bellies of the gloomy clouds overhead. Already the wagons and artillery teams of the army were struggling to a halt in the thick mud, despite all the whip-cracking and curses of the drivers.

Once he reached the farm buildings, Arthur dismounted outside the house and handed his reins to a groom with instructions to feed the horse and find it a dry barn for the night. Then Arthur climbed the short flight of steps to the door and entered. Inside he was greeted by a comforting wave of warmth and light and saw a small crowd of officers clustered round a large fireplace in which the farmer had lit a cheery blaze. As Arthur came in, he was offering his guests the chance to buy wine and food at premium prices.

Having taken off his coat and hat, and scraped his boots, Arthur joined the others for a dinner of stew and then retired to the farmer’s best bedroom for the night, leaving Somerset with orders that he should be woken if there was any important news, and in any case an hour before dawn. As he settled beneath his warm coverings he let his mind dwell on the comforting prospect that the defeat of Soult and the fall of Bayonne would mark an end to the long years of campaigning that had begun in Portugal and Spain before finally extending into the enemy’s own lands.

‘Sir.’ A voice broke into his slumber and Arthur grumbled and turned away, until a hand took his shoulder and shook it gently. ‘Sir, it’s Somerset. You asked me to wake you.’

Arthur blinked his eyes open and then rolled on to an elbow, facing his aide. ‘What is it? What has happened?’

‘Our outposts report that the French have gone, sir.’

‘Gone?’

‘Their sentries have pulled back, and when some of our lads followed them up they saw that there was no one left around the camp fires. Nor any sign of wagons or cannon.’

Arthur swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his boots, giving his orders as he struggled to pull them on.‘Tell Hill to send some cavalry patrols out to find the enemy. Soult may have fallen back to Bayonne, or he’s trying to get round our flank and cut us off from the bridges over the Nive.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is there anything else?’

‘Shall I send word to General Hope about these reports?’

Arthur thought a moment and then shook his head. ‘No. There’s little point. Whatever Soult is playing at, his attention is sure to be firmly fixed on Hill’s divisions. They’re the main threat. We can inform Hope once we have a more certain grasp of Soult’s intentions.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Once Somerset had left him, Arthur stood and pulled on his dark blue jacket and fastened the buttons. The rasp of his stubble on the collar reminded him that he needed a shave, but he decided that there could be no delay in finding out what Soult was up to. Snatching up his hat, he left the sleeping chamber and strode downstairs to join Hill and his staff in the main reception room. The officers were gathered about a map table, illuminated by candles as it was still dark outside.

‘What is the position?’

Hill glanced up from the map table and nodded a greeting as he replied. ‘There’s no sign of the Frogs, aside from a few patrols a short distance from Bayonne.’

‘Any activity inside the town?’

‘Hard to tell. We’ll know more when dawn breaks.’ Hill stroked his chin anxiously. ‘Frankly, sir, I don’t like it. We’ve lost contact with the enemy and our army is divided by a river. It could be a dangerous situation.’

Arthur nodded. He felt a sick sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. Soult had slipped away and Arthur cursed himself for not pushing Hill’s men forward the previous evening, despite the muddy conditions of the road and the cold and weariness of the soldiers. The allied army might pay a bloody price for his complacency, Arthur realised.

As the first light crept into the sky he waited for news of Soult. One by one the cavalry patrols reported in and confirmed that the enemy had successfully broken contact. The only indication of the direction Soult had taken was the churned mud along the road to Bayonne.

‘Why would he fall back to Bayonne?’ Hill wondered. ‘That would give us a free hand along the entire south bank of the Adour. Why abandon the attempt to contain us?’

Before Arthur could respond there was a dull rumble away to the west. Several of the officers looked up and exchanged worried glances.

‘Cannon?’ someone suggested.

‘Of course it is,’ Arthur replied with forced calmness as he realised, all too clearly, what had happened. ‘It seems we have discovered where Marshal Soult has taken his army, gentlemen.’

‘Good God!’ Hill explained. ‘He’s gone after General Hope.’

Arthur nodded. ‘It makes sense. I have underestimated Soult. Still, General Hope should be able to hold his ground well enough while we return across the river.’ He spoke calmly, belying his cold anger at himself for handing Soult this opportunity to attack the allied army in detail. ‘Hill, leave two of your divisions here to cover Bayonne. Send the rest back to reinforce Hope. I’ll ride there directly to take charge.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Arthur glanced round at the other officers, noting the nervous expressions. ‘Gentleman, Soult may have stolen a lead on us and now we must catch up with the old fox and wring his neck. We can do it if we just keep our heads and move swiftly. Is that clear? Good. Now, Somerset, come with me.’

The bugles were calling the men to arms across the surrounding countryside as Arthur and Somerset rode out of Villefranque and galloped south, along the bank of the Nive towards the bridges at Ustaritz. To their right the sounds of cannon fire steadily increased in intensity and now there was a faint crackle of musketry that told of a sizeable engagement a mile or so to the west. From his personal reconnaissance of the country to the south-west of Bayonne Arthur knew that there were plenty of minor ridges and ravines breaking up the landscape. Thanks to the waterlogged ground Soult would be forced to advance on the two roads leading south from Bayonne. Arthur fervently hoped that the left wing of his army had obeyed the orders he had given and fortified their positions at Barroilhet and Bassussarry, blocking the roads. The scattered copses and hedgerows of the region would provide fine cover to conceal an advance and Arthur had little doubt that the enemy would have achieved a measure of surprise against Hope’s divisions. However, if they could hold on until they were reinforced then the situation could be retrieved.

They crossed the repaired bridge, clattering over the cobbles. A handful of engineers recognised their commander in chief but he had galloped on before they could raise a cheer. Once on the far bank they took the road north towards Bassussarry, the sounds of battle growing louder as they approached. A few miles short of the village, they came across a small column of wagons hurrying south. Arthur reined in and spoke to a supply officer.

‘What is going on?’

‘French attacked at first light, sir. Thousands of ’em. General Alten ordered all wagons to the rear.’

‘Where is the Light Division?’

The officer turned and pointed back down the road. ‘I heard they were making a stand at Arcangues, sir.’

Arthur tugged his reins and urged his horse on, along the column of wagons, then back on to the road, increasing his pace to a gallop as the horse’s flanks bellowed with each ragged breath. Ahead the sound of guns boomed out and as the road emerged from a large copse Arthur saw a low ridge ahead, perhaps a thousand paces in length. At one end stood a small but solid-looking church, at the other a country house. Both structures had been garrisoned. In between, the rest of the Light Division was drawn up, two deep in the front line, with a reserve line on the reverse slope. As Arthur and Somerset rode up the slope they came across the first of the wounded, sitting on the damp grass as they tended to their wounds, while those too badly stricken to help themselves had to wait for a member of the division’s corps of bandsmen to treat their injuries.

A colonel of the Fifty-second Foot hurriedly directed them to General Alten’s headquarters in the church tower before turning his attention back to his battalion as a fresh shot from the enemy guns smashed two of his men down before ploughing a muddy divot in the ground a short distance from the colonel’s horse. From the vantage point of the crest of the ridge Arthur could see the entire length of the Light Division’s battlefield. Before the front rank the ground sloped down for four or five hundred paces before flattening out. Rough lines of blue-uniformed bodies marked the extent of the earlier French attacks, while a few score men of Light Division lay sprawled in the trampled and muddy grass. The French columns had halted at the foot of the slope while behind them a dozen guns continued to fire on the defenders of the ridge. There were only two British guns on the ridge, light mountain guns, whose puny bangs were all but drowned out by the regular blasts of the enemy batteries.

General Alten was in the church tower, calmly watching the artillery exchange, as Arthur and Somerset came panting up the narrow spiral staircase into the belfry.

‘How goes it?’ asked Arthur, straightening up and discreetly rubbing his buttocks, numbed after the hard ride.

Alten pursed his lips. ‘Oh, they caught us napping right enough. Started drifting forward in ones and twos, and then made a dash at our pickets. I had my fellows pulled back at once to this position.’

Arthur glanced along the ridge and noticed the boggy ground protecting the flanks at each end. He nodded approvingly. ‘A fine choice. They’ll not get through the Light Division in a hurry.’

‘I should think not,’ Alten replied stiffly. ‘In any case, as you can see, we have already thrown back one attack. The Frogs have been resorting to guns ever since, mostly trying to reduce our strong points.’ Alten patted the masonry. ‘They’ll not pound this to rubble in my lifetime. Mind you, their roundshot has played merry hell with the stones in the cemetery.’

Arthur leaned forward and peered down. Several of the headstones had been smashed to pieces. As he looked up he saw movement to the rear of the French formations lined up opposite the ridge. Three columns had broken away from the force and were marching west, towards the other road. He pointed them out.

‘D’you see? I suspect that Soult has decided to press his luck against our left, having failed to break through here. It is a pity, though, that you had to abandon your fortifications and fall back at all, Alten.’

The general looked at him with a puzzled expression. ‘Fortifications? ’

‘As per your orders. Make a feint towards Bayonne, halt and fortify.’

‘We were given no such orders, sir,’ Alten protested.‘Just told to push the Frogs back and keep ’em busy. That’s all.’

‘I see. Would you happen to know where I might find General Hope?’

‘Yes, sir. He is headquartered at Bidart, with a Portuguese brigade.’

‘And where is the First Division?’

‘Last I heard, they were billeted at St-Jean-de-Luz.’

Somerset started. ‘But that’s almost ten miles from Barroilhet! Good God, what are they doing so far to the rear?’

General Alten shrugged. ‘Best ask Hope, eh?’

Arthur felt an icy dread grip the back of his neck. The left flank of his army was far too extended in depth. If Soult threw his men into the attack they would roll up the allied formations and then turn on the Light Division, cutting Arthur’s left flank to pieces before Hill could intervene. Such a defeat would wreck every success that Arthur had achieved since the campaign began. He turned hurriedly to Somerset.

‘Ride to St-Jean-de-Luz. If the First Division isn’t already on the road to Bayonne then get them moving, on my express orders. If they are marching, then hurry them. They must reach Barroilhet before our position folds. Go now.’

Somerset nodded and hurried down from the tower as Arthur gave orders to Alten. ‘Hold your position here. If Soult breaks through to your left, then you may fall back on Hill. Keep your men closed up, in square if need be. Inform me at once if you are obliged to shift your position.’

‘Yes, sir. Where will you be if I need to send word to you?’

Arthur took a deep breath. ‘I am going to find General Hope.’

He reached the ridge behind the small village of Barroilhet at noon, just as a single brigade of redcoats rushed into line to reinforce the Portuguese soldiers who had been holding off a series of French attacks all morning. The enemy had already gained possession of the village and were pouring forward, ready to assault the ridge. Arthur found General Hope sitting on a bench outside an inn giving orders for the defence of the new position. A bloodstained dressing had been tied round his left calf and his uniform jacket and hat had been shot through by musket balls. He rose stiffly to his feet to greet Arthur as he dismounted.

‘Glad to see you, sir.’

‘Lucky, more like.’ Arthur gestured to his wounded leg.

‘Indeed, sir. I went forward to Barroilhet the instant I heard the French had attacked. They were on us in a trice. My staff and I had to fight our way out.’

Arthur was tempted to comment that such an escape would not have been necessary if Hope had obeyed his orders. But there was no time for recrimination, and at least Hope had thrown himself into the fight the moment he recognised his peril.

‘What strength have you available to counter Soult?’

‘The remains of the two Portuguese brigades holding the village, and Aylmer’s brigade. I sent for the First Division at once. They should reach us before two in the afternoon.’

‘Good.’ Arthur nodded. ‘Until then, we will have to make do with what is here. At least the ground favours us.’

As at Arcangues the French were obliged to attack on a narrow front. Half a mile either side of the muddy road lay two small lakes, surrounded by bogs. If the line could be held long enough for the First Division to arrive then Soult could be contained and his audacious plan would fail. For an instant Arthur felt his heart warming to the enemy marshal. It must have been sorely tempting to attempt an attack on the stronger half of the allied army as it crossed the Nive. But Soult had seen that his foes were playing into his hands by straddling the army across the river. Instead of fighting, he had lured Hill’s column away from the crossing, and then marched his forces across the bridges at Bayonne to achieve an overwhelming advantage against the allied soldiers remaining on the west bank of the Nive.

‘Clever,’ Arthur muttered under his breath. ‘Very clever. Soult is a man who knows how to wait.’

Then Arthur dismissed his opponent from his mind as he scrutinised the scene before him. The arrival of Aylmer’s brigade had put fresh heart into the Portuguese troops, who had been fighting valiantly all morning but had been close to being overwhelmed. Now they closed up in front of their colours and braced themselves for another French onslaught. The enemy infantry had moved aside to make way for a brigade of cavalry: dragoons, in heavy coats with flowing crests atop their gleaming helmets. They walked their horses forward and slowly spread out across the muddy ground in front of the ridge. Arthur was relieved to see no sign of the enemy’s guns, no doubt still stuck in the mud beyond Barroilhet.

‘Not the best conditions for cavalry,’ Hope commented.

‘And no need for your men to form square,’ Arthur responded. ‘I doubt that those dragoons will make any speed over that mud. A few volleys will see them off long before they pose any danger to our line.’

Hope stared at the ground and nodded before turning to one of his staff officers. ‘Campbell, ride down our line. Tell the colonels that their men are to remain where they stand.’

The officer saluted and then spurred his horse away to relay the order.

It took over half an hour for the French cavalry to deploy, and when at last the advance was sounded the heavy mounts struggled through the mud as they picked their way towards the bottom of the slope.

‘What I’d give for a battery of nine-pounders,’ Hope commented bitterly. ‘Case shot would make short work of ’em.’

Arthur turned his gaze away from the dragoons towards the nearest of his men. They stood their ground and waited, with not a backward glance. As Arthur had expected, the poor ground slowed the cavalry to a walk, and they were still moving no faster when the order to make ready to fire echoed along the allied line. The muskets were advanced, and then there was a brief pause before the order to cock the weapons was bellowed and a light clatter filled the air.

‘Take aim!’

Up came the muskets, and each man pulled the butt in tight against his shoulder, anticipating the savage kick as his weapon was discharged. Arthur saw that the dragoons were perhaps seventy or eighty yards away. A longer range than he would like, but the large targets would be easy enough to hit when the volley was unleashed.

‘Fire!’

The volleys of each company of British and Portuguese troops crashed out along the line, spitting over a thousand musket ball into the oncoming formation.

‘Reload!’ a sergeant cried out. ‘Reload your weapons, blast yer!’

Some of the men had paused to see what damage they had caused as the smoke slowly began to disperse, but now lowered their weapons, reached for a fresh cartridge and began to reload. From his position on the crest Arthur could see that scores of dragoons and their horses had gone down, some of the animals kicking and thrashing wildly in blind pain and terror. Their comrades picked their way past, edging closer to the thin line of men defending the ridge.

A second volley spat flame and lead at the dragoons at under thirty yards, point-blank range, and this time even more went down, collapsing into the mud where they were caught like wasps in jam, struggling futilely.

‘That’s the way!’ Hope cheered, breaking into a beam as he watched his men punish the enemy.

A third volley cut down yet more of those who had managed to find a path through the bodies, and they now added to the tangle of men and horses, dead and wounded, caught in the mud. The dragoons were brought to a standstill, and the fourth volley decided the issue. The strident notes of bugles sounded the recall and the horsemen turned their mounts round, not without difficulty, and headed back down the slope, rather faster and with less order than they had ascended it. The Portuguese brigades, down to a handful of rounds, held their fire, but Aylmer’s men fired two more volleys before the order to cease fire was bellowed out.

Arthur guessed that over a quarter of the enemy brigade had been cut down and now the survivors picked their way back through the lines of infantry to the rear. There was a short pause as the walking wounded struggled out of the mire and made their way down the slope, buying the defenders more time. Arthur turned round and scanned the countryside for any sign of reinforcements. Then he saw it, the dull gleam of red as a column of British soldiers emerged between two copses and headed down the road towards them, still a mile and a half away. The slender line of men on the ridge must hold their position for a while yet, Arthur realised.

The deep rumble of drums drew his attention back to the enemy. The French skirmishers were already moving forward in pairs, warily stepping out over the open expanse of churned mud. There would be no cover for them as they approached the waiting Portuguese and British infantry. Behind them three brigades of infantry advanced in column, urged on by their officers and the insistent rhythm of the drums. Hope had recalled his light infantry earlier and his men stood their ground as the French sharpshooters halted and opened fire, steadily picking men off. As each fell, dead or wounded, his comrades closed up to the right and stood firm. They did not have to endure the skirmishers for long, as the French columns steadily climbed up the gentle slope, boots weighted down by the clinging mud.

As the columns came up to the allied line the skirmishers fell back, and for a moment the sound of firing ceased. The French halted and discharged a ragged volley, striking down a score or so of the allies. An instant later Hope’s men returned fire in a massed volley. As the range was close and almost every musket could be brought to bear against the heads of the French columns the effect was devastating. Men toppled down and staggered back all along the leading ranks of the columns. Then there was a pause, filled with the hurried rattle of ramrods as each side reloaded.

‘Interesting,’ Arthur mused aloud. ‘Do you see how the French remain in column instead of forming into a firing line? Those men are clearly poorly trained. Their officers don’t trust ’em with battlefield manoeuvres.’

‘They don’t need to, as long as the enemy outnumber us as they do,’ Hope replied.

‘Not for much longer.’ Arthur pointed out the approach of the First Division. ‘Nevertheless, I think that quality rather than quantity will win the day.’

He turned back to the battle just in time to see his men fire their second volley a few seconds before the enemy, and more men fell on both sides. Powder smoke wreathed the air between the line and the columns, slowly merging into one mass, illuminated from within by the orange flash of each volley as the soldiers fired blind. This was the test of each army’s mettle, thought Arthur. The side that took such punishment longest would win. As he watched, he noted with cold satisfaction that his men were firing three volleys to the enemy’s two. Before long the French were no longer firing volleys but in a constant rattle of musketry as each man reloaded and fired at a different rate.

There was a pounding of hooves as Somerset came galloping up. He reined in and dismounted, cheeks flushed from his exertions in the cold air. He touched his hat to Arthur and General Hope.

‘The First Division had already set out from St-Jean-de-Luz when I arrived, sir,’ he reported. ‘Caught ’em up on the road and been chivvying them on ever since.’ He turned and surveyed the battle lines, and then the massed formations of Soult’s army half a mile to the north. ‘Good God, we haven’t got a chance.’

‘You think so?’ Arthur smiled wryly. ‘We shall see.’

The figures of the lightly wounded trickled back down the sides of the French columns, and those in the ranks shuffling forward to take the place of those who had fallen glanced at them nervously. Then Arthur saw one of the men at the rear of the nearest column turn and creep away from his formation. More followed, brushing past an enraged sergeant who was shouting at them to return to their position. The men at the head of the column were starting to fall back, no longer filling the gaps of the fallen. Slowly, the French columns retraced their steps, away from the thick bank of powder smoke, leaving a tide mark of dead and injured lying in the mud. For a while their officers and sergeants tried to halt them, but there was no will to advance back towards the withering fire of the allied troops.

As soon as the British and Portuguese officers became aware that there was no longer any enemy fire they ordered their men to stop, remove casualties to the rear and re-form their ranks. While the smoke dispersed Arthur watched the battered French brigades re-forming at the foot of the slope. A figure on horseback, his coat richly embroidered with gold lace, rode down the line haranguing his men and pointing his arm at the ridge. Arthur smiled to himself. He could imagine Soult’s fury. The day had begun well for the French, but the drenched ground, the natural bottlenecks along the roads down which he had chosen to advance, and the steadfast courage of the allied troops had halted his attack in its tracks.

The beating of the drums began again, and this time Soult himself rode forward with his men, shouting encouragement as he drew his sabre and waved it forward. The muddy slope, already churned up by the cavalry and infantry of earlier attacks, was a glistening quagmire and the men had trouble keeping their footing as they struggled forward. Behind Arthur the leading brigade of the First Division had reached the ridge and was taking up position on the reverse slope. The succeeding formations were already breaking away from the road to form up on the flanks.

Arthur turned to General Hope. ‘Have them advance to the crest. They’ll be safe enough as there’s no enemy artillery on the field. Let Soult’s men see ’em.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The faltering French attack struggled up the slope a short distance while more and more British troops appeared on the crest of the ridge. Soult reined in, sheathed his sword and surveyed the growing number of the defenders. Then he turned away and plodded back towards the rest of his army, calling an order out to the nearest officers as he passed. A moment later the drums stopped, and the French brigades halted. Arthur and the other officers watched and waited, in tense silence. Then the French began to turn about face and tramp back down the slope.

A chorus of whistles and jeers rose up from the men on the ridge and Hope snapped to one of his aides, ‘I’ll not have such damned indiscipline! Get along there and pass the order for them to be silent.’

‘No,’ Arthur interrupted.‘Indulge them. They’ve earned it. Besides, it can only add to the enemy’s discomfort. Indulge your men, Hope.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he replied reluctantly.

As the rest of the First Division formed up on the ridge, the French began to fall back beyond Barroilhet, leaving a screen of skirmishers to defend the village. Arthur told Hope to send pickets forward and then stand his men down.

‘You might consider fortifying your position this time,’ he added drily. ‘I’m prepared to forgive a man his mistakes, provided he learns from them immediately. I trust I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly. I will do all that is necessary, sir,’ Hope replied, momentarily chastened. Then he cleared his throat and continued in a bluff tone, ‘That was a close run thing. Soult is a fine commander. Almost a match for you, sir.’

‘If you say so,’ Arthur replied dismissively. He was irked by the comparison, and by Hope’s effort to pass the blame for his incompetence to his commander. Even so, Arthur relented. Hope’s brave example had steadied his men at the critical moment. ‘But let me tell you the difference between Soult and me. When he gets in a difficulty, his troops don’t get him out of it. Mine always do.’ He paused and continued under his breath, ‘Even if their officers don’t.’

General Hope nodded contentedly, grateful to have saved his reputation. Then he turned away to issue orders to his staff. Somerset stared towards the last of the French troops pulling back through the village ahead. ‘Is it your intention to pursue Soult?’

Arthur was silent for a moment. ‘No. It will do us no good. There is little to be achieved in this weather. Soult will retreat to Bayonne and settle into winter quarters. Our men are weary and need time to rest and re-equip. The issue will be decided next year. Both here and in the north.’ He smiled thinly. ‘The days of Bonaparte are numbered, Somerset. Make no mistake about it.’

Chapter 47

Arthur slid two five franc pieces across the desk towards Somerset and then leaned back in his chair.

‘Tell me which is the forgery.’

Somerset pursed his lips as he stared at the two silver coins, then he picked them up, one in each hand, and examined them closely, sensing their even weight as he did so. Both carried a minting date of five years earlier. The only distinction was that one was slightly less worn-looking than its companion. Somerset lowered the other coin and raised the shinier one up. ‘This one.’

Arthur slapped his hand down on the table and laughed. ‘Wrong!’

He was delighted with Somerset’s error. Earlier, he had been presented with the two coins by Wilkins, a sergeant in the Rifles, but formerly a resident of Newgate prison, who was in charge of the small team of conterfeiters. Wilkins had asked him to choose between the two coins and Arthur, like his aide, had failed to pick the forgery, and now took pleasure in passing on Wilkins’s explanation of the deception to Somerset.

‘You see, the coin has been stained with coffee. It gives the illusion of wear and will last long enough for the coin to pass through several hands before arousing any suspicion.’

Somerset picked up the coin and examined it again. ‘Very clever. Sergeant Wilkins and his men have done a fine job. We’re damn lucky to have such men with us.’

‘Lucky?’ Arthur raised his eyebrows. ‘In this instance, yes, but I have never been convinced of the wisdom of the army recruiting its men from the scum who infest our prisons.’

Somerset smiled. ‘Newgate’s loss is our gain, sir.’

‘True, but I shudder to think what use such fine skills might be put to in peacetime. In any case, Wilkins reports that he and his men have minted enough French coins for us to buy supplies for the next month at least. By which time, I hope that the promised gold arrives from England.’

Somerset puffed his cheeks and looked doubtful. His scepticism was probably justified, Arthur reflected. Almost every promise made to him by the government over recent years had been subject to alteration, delay or denial. The lack of gold posed the most serious threat to his campaign at present. The mule drivers who carried most of the army’s supplies had not been paid for over three months, and the soldiers for even longer.

Marshal Soult had his own problems, Arthur discovered from the locals. Unable to feed his army of sixty thousand and the population of Bayonne, Soult had been forced to leave a garrison and move the bulk of his army further inland. As the two armies settled into their winter quarters the civilians crossed freely between them, carrying wine, bread, meat and cheese from Bayonne and returning with sugar and coffee that arrived on the first English merchant vessels to enter the port of St-Jean-de-Luz. Even so, it was a seller’s market and the high prices charged by the peasants were made more aggravating by their refusal to accept the silver dollars the army had been using in Spain. Hence the small counterfeiting enterprise Arthur had set up in a closely guarded warehouse in the port where Wilkins and his men melted down the Spanish currency, added in a small measure of base metals, and then cast, finished and aged the French coins. As soon as they were mixed with the other French coins in the army’s war chest they would be ready to go into circulation. Arthur had managed to supplement his supply of French currency by trading coins for British treasury bills with some of the banks in Bayonne. He had been mildly surprised by the bankers’ willingness to enter into such deals with an enemy power, but then the venality of bankers surpassed their sense of patriotism by a considerable measure.

He put the coins in his drawer and turned to the next item on the list of administrative tasks that he and Somerset were working through. ‘Uniforms. Well? How is the replacement programme going?’

‘Slowly. Only a few consignments have arrived in the port. The winter seas are delaying the convoys from Southampton. So far we’ve been able to issue new kit to two of Hope’s divisions. He is sending one regiment at a time into the port to collect their new uniforms. What they leave behind is being laundered and issued to Hill’s men to use for patching.’

‘Good.’ Arthur nodded. Hill’s men, being positioned furthest from the port, were the last to get any kind of supplies, since the roads across the country were largely impassable. The mules used to carry supplies were short of forage and soon wasted away due to the exertion of struggling through the mud to reach the right wing of the allied army.

‘See to it that some of Hill’s reserve formations are recalled to the port to get some new kit. Best not let the men get some fool idea that one formation is being favoured over another.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset bent his head to make a quick note.

‘Now then, on to the requisition of shipping for the Adour crossing. How is Major Simpson faring?’

The engineering officer had been tasked with securing sufficient vessels to construct a pontoon across the mouth of the Adour river. Once the bridge was in position General Hope’s men could encircle Bayonne when better weather returned and the campaign could be continued, while the main column of the allied army drove Soult east.

‘Simpson sent requisitions to the ports as far as Santander, and to some of the nearest French ports. There’s no shortage of interest amongst ship owners. The only difficulty is that they want paying in gold or silver.’

‘No surprise there,’ Arthur replied ruefully. ‘Tell Simpson we can offer them a third now, a third on arrival and a third on completion of the bridge.’

Somerset looked up and sucked in a breath. ‘Can we afford that, sir?’

‘We can afford the initial payment. That will be enough to get them here. Then they’ll have to wait their turn for money, like the rest. Once the ships are under our guns there’s little they can do about the situation in any case. Not very ethical, I know, but needs must.’ Arthur shook his head wearily. ‘Is that all this morning?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then we’ll finish this. You may go. Tell Wilkins to have his men complete their work as soon as possible. The army needs to be provisioned. It may be on the march before long, depending on events.’

‘Events, sir?’

Arthur nodded at some French newspapers that had reached headquarters that morning. ‘Even Bonaparte’s bulletins admit that he is falling back towards the French border. If we are approaching the endgame, then it is vital that we do our duty here in the south of France, and prevent Bonaparte from drawing any reinforcements from Soult.’ Arthur fixed his aide with a determined expression. ‘The end is near, Somerset. Bonaparte cannot stave off the combined armies of his enemies. The war will be over before the end of the year.’

‘And then, sir?’

‘Then? Then we go home.’Arthur waved a hand.‘Now then, off with you.’

When the door had closed behind Somerset, Arthur rose from his seat and walked over to the window. It looked out over the port’s rainswept quays, now packed with shipping, much of it British, free to come and go thanks to the Royal Navy’s domination of the French coast.

What would become of Bonaparte when the war was over? Arthur knew that his army, almost to a man, would be happy to see the French Emperor dethroned and ‘decapitalised’ as they put it. For his part Arthur knew that there was little desire for a return of the Bourbons amongst the French people, and so he was prepared to countenance Bonaparte’s remaining on the throne, as long as his army and his ambitions could be safely contained. Arthur smiled to himself. Whatever he might accept, he doubted that England’s eastern allies would be quite so merciful.

The wet weather continued throughout the rest of December and into the New Year. Most of the allied soldiers had been billeted in the port and the small villages south of Bayonne and the Adour river. Some battalions were not so fortunate and had to make do with barns and whatever shelters they could find. The rest slept in their tents, now worn and leaky after months on campaign. Yet if their comforts were few, their days were filled with a familiar range of pleasures. There were many amenable women amongst the camp followers ready to serve their carnal appetites, rough games of football to be played across muddy pitches, and for the literate rankers too the chance to read whatever they could find, and write home to their families, and to those of the illiterate on their behalf for a small fee. The officers put on plays and recitals and hosted meals, each brigade trying to outdo the next as they acted as hosts. Christmas was celebrated with the fervent enthusiasm of men who knew that they might well never see another, and the carols that were sung around the camp fires carried a kind of warm melancholy to Arthur’s ears as he toured his army to present the season’s greetings to his soldiers.

While the men made the most of the enforced break in the campaign Arthur worked long hours at his desk, cajoling his supply officers into making sure that they prepared his army for the next, and he hoped final, campaign of the war. In addition to such burdens, he also had to send increasingly terse messages back to the government in London, explaining why he had been obliged to halt. Politicians seemed to have no understanding of the logistical handicap that mud presented to an army. To them mud was little more than the unsightly accretion on footwear that obliged a man to hand his boots to his servant for cleaning.

It was early in January, while Arthur was wearily drafting yet another reply to his political masters, that a message arrived on the regular mail packet from Southampton. The commander of the vessel, an excited young lieutenant, brought the message to him in person. After handing over the official sealed message he could not help himself from speaking.

‘Wonderful news, sir. It’s all across England and no one speaks of anything else.’

‘Really?’ Arthur replied drily, and then tapped the message. ‘Do you mind?’

‘What? Oh, yes. I apologise, sir.’

The lieutenant stood stiffly, biting his tongue, as Arthur casually broke the seal, unfolded the document and began to read. Somerset, sitting at a smaller desk in the corner of the room, could barely contain his curiosity. When Arthur had finished he looked up.

‘Good news indeed.’ He turned to Somerset. ‘It seems that our eastern allies crossed the Rhine three days before Christmas. They have begun the invasion of France. Bonaparte has too few men to do anything but mount a fighting withdrawal.’ Arthur lowered the letter. ‘The time to act is upon us, and our allies urge us to renew our offensive. However, we cannot advance while the weather and the ground are against us. In the meantime, then, we must prepare the army to break camp and march against the French. No later than the middle of February.’

‘What about the roads, sir? What if they are still impassable?’

Arthur considered the possibility for a moment. ‘When the finishing line is in sight, then damn the mud! We shall have to advance in any case.’

The following month Hill’s corps left their winter quarters and advanced to screen the activities of the rest of the army. At the same time a flotilla of hired boats and small ships made their way up the coast from St-Jean-de-Luz to the mouth of the Adour. The weather had moderated, clearing the sky and adding to Arthur’s good humour now that the campaign was under way again. Under the cover of the guns of a frigate and a battery of cannon on the south bank of the Adour, the engineers began to anchor the craft side by side in the estuary and lay down a wooden road across their decks. The far bank was lightly defended, and the enemy fell back the moment the first roundshot came their way.

Towards the end of the first day the bridge was nearly complete and a Portuguese brigade had been landed on the far shore, together with a handful of guns and a rocket battery. Arthur had crossed the river to oversee the establishment of the bridgehead when there was an exchange of musket fire from the road to Bayonne. A moment later a soldier came trotting back to warn that an enemy column was approaching. Colonel Wilson, the commander of the brigade, immediately formed his men up across the road ready to defend the small party of engineers constructing the landing stage on the north bank. The guns and the rockets were in place on a small mound overlooking the river and Arthur gestured to Somerset to follow him and rode up to the two batteries for a better view.

To the east the road snaked between undulating ground, and Arthur could see tiny puffs of smoke as the Portuguese skirmishers exchanged fire with the light infantry advancing in a line in front of the main French column.

‘A division, I should say.’

‘And cavalry, there, towards the rear, sir,’ Somerset said quietly.‘Could cause us some difficulty.’

Arthur looked towards the boat bridge. There was still a gap of a hundred yards between the anchored boats and the river bank. The last of the vessels still had to be edged into position and then the bridge would have to be laid across the decks. It would be at least another three hours before the first troops could march across the Adour. That meant standing and fighting, or giving the order to abandon the bridgehead until a larger force could be landed by boat to drive the French away. If the north bank of the Adour was lost it might take days to retake it. Arthur saw Colonel Wilson glance back at him, and he composed his face and remained still to give Wilson the chance to make the right decision. There was a pause, then Wilson turned back towards the enemy and ordered his men to advance to where the ground was more open and they would have the space to deploy into a line long enough to bring every musket to bear on the approaching enemy.

No more than ten minutes later the Portuguese skirmishers came trotting back down the road and took up their position at the left of the line. From his position Arthur could see the French skirmishers now, steadily advancing across country until they came within range of the Portuguese line. They had little time to harass Wilson’s men before the rest of the French column came up, marching swiftly. The commander of the leading brigade halted his column and began deploying opposite the Portuguese.

‘This should be interesting,’ Somerset commented. ‘Let’s hope our allies can stand their ground alone.’

‘They will,’ Arthur replied firmly.‘They are seasoned men, as good as our own line infantry. Besides, they are not entirely alone.’ He gestured towards the guns and rockets. A moment later the artillery battery fired its first rounds. The range was short, and the ground wet enough to absorb much of the energy as the solid iron balls struck the earth, kicking up wedges of turf before coming to a stop just short of the enemy. The captain in charge of the battery, Mosse, instructed his crews to increase the elevation and the next shots fell on target, carving their way through the French line.

Arthur turned his attention to the rocket battery. Their launch troughs were supported by a simple iron A frame which could be quickly raised or lowered by means of a sliding bolt to change the angle at which they were fired. The crews had loaded the first rockets and now stood back, the sergeants holding the cords that triggered the flintlock firing mechanisms.

Turning back towards the battle lines Arthur saw that the French had made no attempt to advance yet.

‘What are they waiting for?’ asked Somerset.

‘Their cavalry. Once they reach the head of the column I should imagine they will attempt to get round Wilson’s left flank. If that happens, then his brigade will be forced to form square. That’s when their infantry will advance. This could turn to the enemy’s advantage, unless something is done.’ He tugged his reins and walked his mount over to the rocket battery’s commander.

‘Hughes, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Your rockets can fire up to two miles, I believe.’

‘That’s right, sir. Of course they will not be accurate at such a range.’

‘They are not accurate at any range,’ Arthur replied tersely. ‘So we should be thankful the enemy are providing us with such a large target. Now then, you see the enemy’s cavalry?’

Lieutenant Hughes glanced to the east and nodded.

‘Then aim for them, if you please. Let us see what your contraptions can achieve.’

The officer grinned and touched the brim of his hat before turning away to order his men to align their launch troughs towards the distant target. When all was ready he gave the order for the first rocket to be launched. The sergeant gave his firing cord a sharp tug, the flintlock snapped shut with a spark and the short fuse sputtered for a few seconds before the charge was ignited. With a harsh, hissing roar the rocket leaped from its trough with a brilliant jet of fire and cloud of smoke. Arthur watched the spiralling path of the rocket as it rose to the top of its arc and then curved down towards the French column. It exploded with a flash and white puff some distance above the enemy. Arthur saw several of the soldiers struck down by shrapnel, while others ducked, forcing the column to stop.

‘Very good!’ Arthur grinned at Hughes. ‘That’s put the wind up them. Kindly continue your good work.’

‘With pleasure, sir.’

The second rocket went wildly astray, over the river where it slammed into the water close to the boat bridge. Hughes looked sheepish before he turned back to supervise the next rocket. He had better fortune with the following two, which burst on the ground, the first into the infantry column, the second right in the middle of the cavalry regiment, striking down at least a dozen and scattering a hundred more as the horses bolted from the unfamiliar weapon. At the same time the artillery battery had continued to punish the French line which still had not moved, and was standing waiting for the cavalry. A distant boom drew Arthur’s attention to the southern bank of the Adour where more allied batteries were positioned. The range was long but the enfilading fire was soon doing great damage as each shot ploughed into the enemy’s left flank.

Somerset was enjoying the spectacle and slapped his thigh with glee each time one of the rockets exploded just above or amongst the enemy. The effect on the enemy’s morale was far in excess of the damage caused and soon the column had been stopped in its tracks as men and horses scattered as each rocket corkscrewed towards them with a shrieking roar.

Arthur reached into his saddle bucket for his telescope and trained it on the disrupted ranks of the French column. He sought out the enemy general and could not help smiling as he saw him shake his fist and shout at his men. Each time he began to reassert control a fresh rocket undid his work and in the end he snatched off his hat and threw it on the ground in frustration. After enduring half an hour of the bombardment he finally gave in and the column turned about and hurried back down the road towards Bayonne. The Portuguese troops could only see the line of men in front of them, and they let out a great cheer as soon as the enemy re-formed their columns and hurried after their comrades.

Arthur lowered his telescope with a satisfied smile. ‘Well, that’s that. I shouldn’t think we’ll have any further difficulty with the bridgehead. You may tell General Hope that his blockade of Bayonne can begin the moment his corps completes the encirclement of the city.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘As for us, we’ll re-join Hill.’ Arthur’s smile faded as he considered the next phase of the campaign. ‘Then it’s back to hard marching. This time, we’ll run Soult down and defeat him once and for all. With the south of France in our hands and the north falling to the allies then our friend Bonaparte will be caught in the middle. Let us hope the man has the sense to admit defeat.’ Arthur stared at the French bodies littering the road to Bayonne and continued quietly, ‘By God, Somerset, I want nothing more than to see the end of the slaughter that has been carried out in his name.’

Chapter 48

Napoleon

Paris, 24 January 1814

A cold blue hue covered the city as dusk gathered. Napoleon stood back from the window of his office in the Tuileries and looked over the public square in front of the gates. Only a handful of people still wandered across the cobbled expanse in ones and twos, huddled into their coats as a chilly wind blew across the city. Several beggars squatted outside the gates, hoping to get a few coins from those who passed by, trying to catch sight of the Emperor. There was little chance of that, Napoleon thought bitterly. The risk of some madman taking a shot at him was too high. After his return to Paris, three weeks after the disaster at Leipzig, Napoleon’s police minister, General Savary, reported that he had uncovered a number of conspiracies.

Most were harmless enough - coteries of disgruntled aristocrats sending letters denouncing Napoleon and declaring their loyalty to the Bourbon cause. They were kept under watch and any contacts they made duly noted. Other plots were more dangerous. Groups of army officers planning to compel the Emperor to sue for peace, or have him forced from power. The minister’s agents were busy compiling evidence against them in readiness to make arrests. Such officers were destined for a dank cell in a far-flung prison, or to be placed up against a wall in the cool light of dawn and shot. Then there was the minority of traitors who planned to kill Napoleon, and his heir too if possible. There was little common cause between the groups. Some wanted the restoration of a Bourbon monarchy. Others wanted a return to the values and institutions of the early years of the Revolution. And there were those who merely wanted revenge for a past grievence.

Whatever their causes, Napoleon did his best to ensure that he was protected against them all and did not expose himself to danger any more than was necessary. Since his return he had seldom ventured outside the Tuileries, save for visits to St-Cloud to see the Empress and his son. There was a beleaguered air about the palace, and the Parisians no longer gathered in vast crowds to acclaim their Emperor. Most of them were already looking to the future, making sure that they did not openly support a regime that might well fall at any time. Yet the grip of Napoleon’s reputation, and the optimistic pronouncements of the newspapers, ensured that the people dared not openly question whether the Emperor’s days were numbered.

He turned slowly away from the window and crossed the room to his desk. Tomorrow he would be leaving the capital to return to the army, or what was left of it, he mused bitterly. After Leipzig the exhausted soldiers had been forced to make one retreat after another, pressed back by the allied armies who clung to their heels like hunting dogs scenting the kill. By the end of the year France had a mere eighty thousand men to hold off nearly four times that number across a front that stretched from the North Sea to the Alps. In Italy Prince Eugиne, also outnumbered, was holding on. In the south Soult was struggling to contain the recently promoted Field Marshal Wellington, who had crossed the frontier into France.

Napoleon smiled briefly. Soon Wellington would be taken care of. Two months earlier he had signed a treaty with Prince Ferdinand, returning the Spanish crown to him in exchange for an alliance against Britain. Once Ferdinand’s grip on power was assured, then his soldiers would turn on the British and Wellington would be compelled to retreat. That would free Soult and his army to march north.

Even so, more men were needed to fill out the ranks of the Grand Army and Napoleon had issued an edict calling for over nine hundred thousand men to defend the motherland. Scarcely a tenth of that number had answered the call, Napoleon mused angrily.

‘What do they want?’ he muttered. ‘A fat Bourbon king on the throne? Aristocrats to bleed them dry? The priests of Rome claiming their tithes? Why won’t they fight to save themselves?’ He thumped his fist down on the desk and repeated loudly, ‘Why?’

Those who had joined the army were poorly equipped due to shortages of muskets and uniforms. The cavalry regiments were the worst affected of all, as there were so few remounts available in France.

The door to the office clicked open and a clerk nervously looked in.

‘What is it?’ Napoleon barked.

‘I - I thought I heard you call for me, sire.’

‘No. I was just thinking aloud. Go away . . . No! Wait. Have my brother and generals Savary and Berthier arrived yet?’

‘No, sire.’

Napoleon frowned. ‘Well, send them in the moment they reach the palace. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sire.’

The clerk bowed his head and backed out of the office, closing the door quietly behind him.

Although Joseph and General Savary knew the reason why they had been summoned, Napoleon wanted to ensure that they had a full grasp of his intentions for the governance of France, in case anything happened to him. Berthier would take over the management of the war in the absence of the Emperor. The years of constant warfare and the exhausting task of translating the Emperor’s commands into orders and providing him with the minutest details of the strength and location of every unit in the Grand Army had exacted their toll on Berthier. After Leipzig he had returned to France a broken man and had only just returned to light duties. Some of the other marshals were still recovering from wounds received at Leipzig. Those still serving in the army were tired of war and some had openly urged Napoleon to sue for peace. Murat had withdrawn to his kingdom in Naples and was ominously silent, not having replied to a single request from his imperial master for help in the defence of France.

The door to the office opened again and the clerk entered. ‘General Savary, Marshal Berthier and his highness Joseph are here, sire.’

Napoleon stared at him. ‘They arrived together?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘In the same carriage?’

‘I don’t know, sire. They were together when they entered the anteroom.’

‘I see.’ Napoleon felt a sudden stab of suspicion. If they had arrived together then it was obvious they had travelled to the palace together. Why? What reason could they have for meeting before attending their Emperor? Napoleon breathed out slowly. He was in danger of seeing conspiracies everywhere.

‘Sire?’

Napoleon realised the clerk had been waiting for his response. He nodded. ‘Show them in.’

The clerk disappeared and a moment later there came the sound of footsteps. Joseph led the way. Savary wore a plain dress jacket as he had since taking the post of Minister of Police. Berthier was also wearing civilian clothes. Napoleon had grown so accustomed to seeing him in uniform that it came as something of a surprise. Berthier looked pale and thin and his hair was streaked with grey. Napoleon nodded towards the chairs lining one side of the room. ‘Bring them over and be seated.’

He waited until the three men had taken their places and settled before he continued. ‘I have done all that I can to prepare the army for the present campaign. France has provided me with all that she has left to defend her sacred soil, and I will find and defeat our enemies and send them reeling back across the Rhine. Let no man be in doubt of that.’ He glanced at each of them, daring them to defy his will. ‘Tomorrow, at first light, I will ride to join the army. While I am gone, you, my brother, will be appointed Lieutenant Governor of my realms. That is why I have recalled you to Paris.’

Joseph nodded steadily. ‘You may rely on me, sire.’

‘As I did in Spain?’

Joseph flushed but kept his mouth shut to prevent any expression of his hurt and anger. Napoleon felt no desire to offer his brother any comfort. The situation was too perilous for forgiveness.

‘This time, you will confine yourself to civil affairs. General Savary will act as your eyes and ears in the public and private salons of Paris. If there is any dissent, or open opposition to the regime, then the general will deal with it, using whatever powers and force are required. General Savary’s authority in maintaining order and quashing my enemies is absolute, is that clear?’

Joseph nodded.

‘Good.’ Napoleon turned to Berthier. ‘I require you to take charge of recruiting soldiers for the campaign, and making sure they are equipped. Do you accept?’

‘Of course, sire,’ Berthier replied quietly. ‘I have never failed in my duty to my country. However . . .’

Napoleon’s brow tensed. ‘However?’

There was a brief pause before Berthier cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly. ‘Sire, I have followed events as best as I can during my convalescence. The war is going badly for France. Two days ago I heard that Ney, Victor and Marmont had been forced to retreat beyond the Meuse.’

‘That is correct,’ Napoleon admitted.‘It was expedient to do so. They are retreating on to their lines of supply, while the enemy is extending theirs with every pace that they advance. I would prefer to have taken the offensive, but strategic exigencies prevent it. So, we lure them into a trap. At present they have divided into three armies, each of which can be defeated, provided that I can keep them apart and deal with each in turn.’

Berthier shut his eyes and shook his head gently before he responded. ‘But, sire, you will suffer attrition with each battle, and the odds of winning become less favourable. Besides, many of the regiments in the army are under strength. To stand any chance of defending France you must find far more men.’

‘Which I am in the process of doing,’ Napoleon replied defiantly. ‘Once King Ferdinand ratifies the peace treaty between Spain and France then tens of thousands more men will be available. And more, as soon as Murat sends reinforcements from Naples. Meanwhile, there are two divisions forming at Lyon. They will march north to reinforce me the moment I call on them.’

‘They are merely boys and invalids, sire. Many of them have still not been issued full uniforms, or muskets. They cannot be considered as front line units.’

‘We are all in the front line, Berthier. Every soul in France has been in the front line from the moment the enemy crossed our border. But rest assured, I will only fight delaying actions until the moment I can attack each of their armies at an advantage.’

‘Even if that means retreating as far as Paris, sire?’

‘Even that,’ Napoleon conceded.

Berthier slumped back in his chair. He sighed. ‘Then we must make ready the capital’s defences, sire. The people need to be prepared for the worst. We must lay in rations to feed the population and the garrison, mount every spare cannon on the walls and in the forts.’

‘No.’ Napoleon shook his head.‘If the people think that Paris will be attacked then it will only result in panic and strengthen the hand of those traitors who seek to bring France low. There will be no attempt to prepare any defences. As far as the people are concerned, they are safe from the enemy. Is that perfectly clear?’

‘Yes, sire,’ Berthier replied patiently. ‘But if, for the sake of argument, the enemy are able to advance far enough to attack Paris, what then?’

‘Then there will be no attempt to abandon the city. The garrison and the people will resist the invader to the last breath, and if necessary we must bury ourselves under its ruins.’

There was silence in the room as Berthier stared at the Emperor, then exchanged brief glances with the others. He cleared his throat. ‘Sire, that is not a strategy. There is no honour, or purpose, in a ruler dragging a civilisation down to destruction. After what happened to Moscow we can be sure that the Tsar would happily destroy Paris in revenge. We cannot risk the capital, or its people, in this way. Either you give the order to prepare Paris for a siege, or, if you decide that it cannot be defended, it must be declared an open city.’

Napoleon stared at his subordinate, momentarily surprised by his boldness. If Berthier, of all people, dared speak to him this way, then his power over his followers was not as firm as he had supposed. It would be best to affect a conciliatory aspect, he concluded.

‘It is possible that the enemy may advance as far as Paris,’ he conceded. ‘It might be prudent to avoid giving battle in the streets, if there is an advantage to be sought from doing otherwise. But you are right, my dear Berthier, it would be better to avoid unnecessary civilian casualties. After all, they pay taxes.’ He chuckled, and the others smiled thinly in response. ‘You have your instructions, gentlemen. I place my complete trust in you to keep order during my absence. Savary, Berthier, you are dismissed.’

The two officers rose from their chairs and left. When they had gone, Napoleon eased himself back with a sigh, and then smiled at his older brother. Joseph returned the smile hesitantly.

‘It is a comfort to me to know I can rely on you, Joseph. I can trust you with my empire while I go to fight the enemies of France. Can I also trust you to take care of my wife and son?’

‘Of course.’

Napoleon scrutinised his brother. ‘We are so unalike, in many ways. You are a man of considered opinion, and of gentleness. I was wrong to impose the crown of Spain upon you. It was too heavy a burden. I see that now. I should have used your talents more wisely.’

‘I have served you as well as I could, whatever you asked of me.’

‘I know. I have always been grateful to you for that.’

‘Even when you have not shown it?’

Napoleon smiled sadly. ‘Even then.’

The injured note in Joseph’s tone was clear and for a moment Napoleon could not look his brother in the eye. Instead he reached for the decanter of wine and poured two glasses, carefully sliding the first across the table towards his brother. ‘Tell me honestly, what do you advise me to do?’

Joseph stared at him for a moment and then shrugged. ‘The war is lost. The allies have offered you terms - generous terms under the circumstances. Why don’t you accept them, while there is still time to keep your throne?’

Napoleon stroked his brow. It was true that some, at least, of his enemies were prepared to discuss peace on fair terms. Both England and Austria had offered to end the war if France accepted the frontiers that she had at the outbreak of the Revolution. Napoleon would be permitted to retain his throne, but would have to renounce his authority over the Confederation of the Rhine, as well as all his lands in Italy. He shook his head.

‘No. If I accepted such a peace the people of France would never forgive me. Besides, the Tsar and the King of Prussia would not accept peace on those terms. They want my head. In any case, you are missing the vital point.’

‘Oh?’

‘The allies are divided into two camps: the interests of England and Austria are inimicable to those of Russia and Prussia. That is why they are keen to offer peace. They need France - they need me - to keep the balance of power in Europe. That is their weakness, which I intend to exploit. Don’t you see, Joseph? If I can keep the war going long enough then the alliance against me must break. They will turn on each other and I shall be saved. Then I can make peace with whom I choose. On my terms.’ He smiled coldly. ‘When I have won, history will judge that I am right.’

Joseph shook his head.‘I fear that you are mistaken. You are chancing everything on the hope, the faint hope, that your enemies will set upon each other before they defeat you. It is madness to take such a risk when they offer you peace.’

The burden of the last months of frantic activity weighed heavily upon Napoleon, and the prospect of a bitter dispute with his brother made him feel weary and heavy-hearted. He sighed. ‘I have made my decision. My plans. I will not change them now. I do not deny they may go awry, but I do not feel that destiny has abandoned me yet. So, brother, I will go to war, and you and the others will govern France in my stead. Can I depend upon you?’

Joseph nodded wearily.

‘Then the matter is settled. Save one final duty I ask of you.’

Joseph’s eyes narrowed. ‘What is it?’

‘It is possible that I may be defeated. That I may even be killed on the field of battle. In either event I could not bear the thought of my son being raised as an Austrian prince. I would rather his throat was cut. Do you understand? Under no circumstances is he, or his mother, to be allowed to fall into enemy hands, alive.’

Joseph could not hide the look of revulsion that instinctively rose up in response to the request. ‘I am not a murderer.’

‘It is not murder. It is mercy that I ask of you. If the worst happens, then spare my son, my flesh and blood, the indignity of denying his true identity. I ask you to promise me this. Swear to me that you will give the order. On your honour.’

‘No!’ Joseph raised his hands. ‘Ask anything of me but that.’

Napoleon glared at him for a while, then slumped back into his chair. ‘Very well. I shall have to ask another. But it pains me that you of all people should deny me this comfort before I go to war.’

‘It pains me that my brother, of all people, should ask me to commit such a monstrous act.’ Joseph stood up abruptly. ‘Now, if you no longer require my presence, sire, I will leave.’

Napoleon stared up at him coldly. ‘Then leave.’

His brother turned and strode towards the door, opening it swiftly and closing it loudly behind him, without once glancing back at Napoleon. The room was silent, save for the low moan of the wind outside as it gusted over the darkened city.

Chapter 49

Arcis-sur-Aube, 20 March 1814

The engineer officer approached Napoleon and Marshal Ney and saluted. ‘The bridge is repaired, sire. The army can cross as soon as you give the command.’

‘Well done, Captain. You and your men have pleased me. Pass on my thanks to them.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The engineer’s pleasure at the compliment shone from his face. He swallowed nervously. ‘And . . . and I’m certain they wish you a swift victory, sire.’

‘That may take somewhat longer to achieve.’ Napoleon smiled thinly. He turned to Ney, instantly banishing the other man from his thoughts. ‘Send Sebastiani and his cavalry across first. They are to press forward and screen the bridgehead. The Guard can cross next.’

Ney bowed his head to acknowledge the order, then replied,‘We still can’t be certain what strength we face to the east, sire. What I wouldn’t give to have Murat and his men with us now. Such fine cavalry . . .’ Ney glanced quickly at his Emperor and the latter’s dark expression instantly stilled his tongue.

‘Then it is a shame for us both that Murat has decided to deny us his good services,’ Napoleon responded bitterly. It was only two weeks before that the news had arrived from Italy. Marshal Murat, the Emperor’s brother-in-law, whom Napoleon had gifted the kingdom of Naples, had defected to the allies. There had been little of the rage that Napoleon might once have given vent to when he first heard of Murat’s’s treachery. Anger had swiftly given way to contempt and disgust. Napoleon fervently hoped that he lived long enough to have his revenge. Not just on Murat, but on the newly recrowned Ferdinand of Spain as well. Despite the treaty he had signed with Napoleon at Valenзay, Ferdinand had failed to keep one of the promises he had made so earnestly and Spain was still at war with France.

Revenge would have to wait, he reflected. That was a luxury he must deny himself, until the invaders had been driven from French soil. The allied armies remained divided, advancing boldly across northern and eastern France, confident in the strength of their numbers. As a consequence he been able to strike at their overextended columns several times since he had taken command of his forces at the end of January. Although the snow, and the subsequent mud, had hampered the movements of both sides, Napoleon held the advantage of support of the French people, who turned out to help heave the guns through the mud, or sabotaged bridges and obstructed roads to delay the enemy wherever they could. If they no longer showed unrestrained joy and loyalty in his presence, then at least he could rely on them to hate and resist the enemy.

At present, Napoleon needed every shred of assistance that could be mustered for his outnumbered soldiers. While he marched with Ney against the Austrians of General Schwarzenberg, Marmont was attempting to hold the approaches to Paris against two Prussian armies. Napoleon was already contemplating the need to abandon the capital to its fate and concentrate all his forces for one bold, massed attack sweeping across the lines of communication of his enemies. It would be a desperate measure, but there was no hope for any other strategy - military or diplomatic - should Paris fall to the enemy. The allies had just announced that they were resolved to agree a single peace with France and there was no longer any question of reverting to the pre-Revolution borders, under the rule of Napoleon. His reign was forfeit, and the allies would dictate their terms to France, if they were victorious.

Napoleon cleared his throat and addressed Ney calmly. ‘Sebastiani’s patrols reported that the main Austrian column is twenty miles to the north. We are facing their rearguard. If we can advance quickly enough to force a battle then we shall overwhelm them. There is nothing for you to be concerned about.’

‘I’m not concerned for myself, sire,’ Ney responded testily, and gestured towards the columns of guardsmen waiting for the order to advance. ‘But we cannot afford to risk the few men we have left to face the enemy.’

‘We will lose some,’ Napoleon shrugged. ‘The trick of it is to make sure that they lose more, far more, than we do.’

‘They can afford to, sire.’

‘Not indefinitely. As long as we are resolved to fight the invader, we have the advantage of interior lines of supply, and a unity of resolve and purpose, something that no alliance ever truly has. So we shall continue to drive a wedge between them, until their alliance shatters.’

‘And if it doesn’t?’

Napoleon forced a smile. ‘Come now, my dear Michel, surely the bravest of the brave has not lost the desire to fight?’

‘Do not doubt my courage, sire. But I am a man of sound judgement too and I question what we are doing here.’ He paused, then shook his head wearily. ‘You should have accepted their offer of peace.’

Napoleon looked at him coldly. ‘It is too late for that. We must do what we can with the tools at hand. Now, order your men to cross the river.’

Ney’s lips compressed and he stared at his Emperor briefly before tugging his reins and spurring his horse over towards the leading formation of Friant’s guardsmen.

Early in the afternoon Napoleon crossed the bridge and re-joined Ney and the Guard as they approached the village of Torcy-le-Grand, nestled in rolling farmland. Ahead of them, dotted across the countryside, rode the cavalry patrols, ever watchful for a sign of the enemy. From the east a distant crackle of small arms carried on the chilly air and Napoleon pointed in the direction of the sound.

‘Have that investigated at once. The enemy is supposed to be in the south.’

‘Yes, sire.’

While Ney sent an order forward to Sebastiani, Napoleon turned his attention to the men of the brigade he was riding alongside. They were soldiers of one of the recently raised units. There was a leavening of veterans, denoted by the chevrons on their sleeves, but most were new recruits, selected from the training camps to join the Imperial Guard directly. The only battle experience they had was the last few weeks of campaigning. A few men raised cheers for the Emperor as his horse trotted by, but most either just glanced at him, or stared at the ground in front of them as they tramped on, bending under the burden of their muskets and backpacks. The strain of forced marches through the cold days and nights of winter was evident in their grim and numbed expressions. These men must endure the hardships of the campaign better than their enemies if they were to win victories and save France, and their Emperor’s throne.

Never had the odds been so heavily weighted against him, Napoleon reflected. And yet he felt the thrill of the conviction that he must somehow win. Sheer force of will had led him to dominate Europe, and he would die rather than bow to lesser men.

The sound of firing increased and Napoleon looked to the east, where a regiment of Sebastiani’s hussars were galloping towards a low ridge in the direction of the guns. Beyond them, silhouetted against the overcast sky, were the vedettes who had fallen back. A twinge of anxiety clenched in the pit of Napoleon’s stomach. There was not supposed to be any threat from the east, according to the intelligence reports. Yet something had caused the cavalry screen to fall back, and Sebastiani to concentrate his cavalry.

With a dull clop of hooves Ney trotted up and reined in. ‘Seems like the patrols missed an enemy column, sire. It’s only to be expected, given how little cavalry we can field.’

‘Don’t make excuses for your officers,’ Napoleon snapped.‘Someone will answer for this incompetence.’

Ney looked at him sourly. ‘Then let it be me, sire. The men are only as good as their commander.’

‘Do not dissemble with me, Ney. Why, if I took your line of argument to its absurd conclusion, then I should be the man ultimately responsible.’

Ney said nothing for a moment, then looked back towards the ridge and spoke quietly.‘Those responsible will always be held to account, one way or another.’

Before Napoleon could reply the sounds of bugles cut through the chilly air. As the last of the French vedettes and patrols trotted back towards the main column the first of the enemy appeared. They wore the plumed helmets of cuirassiers, and the heavy coats that covered their breastplates made them seem large and formidable. Squadron after squadron appeared along the crest, and reined in.

Marshal Ney immediately halted his column and turned them to face the threat as Sebastiani’s cavalry retired to the wings of the line of infantry. The artillery was still stuck in mud on the far side of the river and Napoleon cursed the lost opportunity to give the Austrian horsemen a savage pounding. His bad mood increased as a battery of horse artillery joined the enemy on the ridge, and soon the stubby barrels of howitzers were presented to the Frenchmen.

‘Now we’re in for it,’ Ney muttered, and glanced down the line. ‘I pray that the men hold firm.’

A moment later there was a brief series of flashes and puffs of smoke, and after a short delay the sound of the enemy’s howitzers carried down the slope, sharper than the bellow of cannon. There was a burst of orange and red just above the heads of a company of infantry a hundred paces to Napoleon’s left, and several men collapsed as if slapped down by a giant hand. More shells burst above the men, or slammed down into the muddy ground, fuses sputtering before they detonated, sending a spray of mud and fragments of iron slicing through the surrounding men. As the Austrian gunners reloaded and fired as quickly as they could, the casualties mounted along the French line, and Napoleon noticed that the men were slow to close up and fill the gaps as they stared fearfully at the howitzers.

‘They’ll not stand much more of this,’ said Ney as he watched the men of the nearest battalion waver, some already edging away.

There was a loud splat nearby and Napoleon glanced sharply towards the noise. A shell had landed right in front of the nearest men, a company of grenadiers. The men flinched back, terror in their expressions as they tried to push away from the fiercely fizzing fuse burning on top of the spherical iron casing. Napoleon kicked his heels in and jerked the reins savagely. With a shrill whinny his horse turned towards the shell and galloped forward. It took seconds to reach the shell, but Napoleon was only aware of a serene stillness of mind that seemed to slow the passage of time as he took in myriad details of the line of soldiers reeling back, the impressions of boots and hooves in the soft ground, and then the ugly protrusion of black metal and sparks.

‘Sire!’ Ney shouted in alarm. ‘What the hell are you—’

Then Napoleon’s horse was directly over the shell, there was a flash and a roar that he felt as a blow, transmitted through the body of the horse beneath him. There was smoke in his eyes and mouth and his ears were numbed, and the saddle fell away beneath him as the horse collapsed, killed instantly by the explosion. Napoleon dropped the reins and struggled to rise up from the saddle. Hands grabbed his arms and pulled him away from the horse and held him up. Ney was staring anxiously into his face. ‘Sire? Sire, are you injured?’

Still dazed and with his ears ringing Napoleon looked round and saw that the blast had torn the belly and legs of his horse to shreds. Intestines, organs and blood lay spattered either side of the animal’s body. But the hapless beast had absorbed the full force of the explosion, and no one else had been hurt. Napoleon shook off the hands that supported him and adjusted his hat.

‘I’m all right,’ he announced. ‘I’m not wounded.’

Ney glanced over him and then shook his head.‘What did you think you were doing, sire?’

Napoleon had to concentrate hard before he could summon a reply. ‘The men were breaking. Besides, if I hadn’t then we’d have both been killed. It was the logical thing to do. Now get me another horse.’

‘Logical?’ Ney frowned, and then barked a laugh. ‘Sire, I swear, you have balls of steel!’

The men whom Napoleon had saved joined in his laughter, then one called out, ‘Long live Napoleon! Long live the Emperor!’

The cry echoed down the line as the men cheered to see that he was alive. Napoleon climbed into the saddle of the mount one of Ney’s staff officers hurriedly gave up, and raised his hat aloft, waving it towards the ridge.

‘There is your enemy! Here is your Emperor! Providence is with us! Advance and drive them back!’

Ney bellowed the order and an instant later it was carried down the line and the French infantry began advancing towards the ridge, cheering Napeolon’s name at the top of their voices. The Austrian cavalry had formed into lines, ready to charge, and still their guns lobbed shells towards the approaching French formations, causing further casualties. But the men’s blood was up now, and they came on, bayonets angled towards the enemy, shouting out their battle cry, heedless of the violent flashes of fire as the shells burst over and amongst them. As his men approached the enemy, Napoleon saw the gun crew hurriedly limber the howitzers and then withdraw down the far side of the low ridge. The cavalry remained, as if the enemy commander could not make his mind up what to do. Finally courage won out over caution. When the two sides were no more than two hundred paces apart, the Austrian bugles sounded the advance.

The horses stepped forward, and then moved swiftly through a trot into a canter, bits jingling and hooves thumping down in a rumble that could be clearly felt through the ground. Ney halted his line, and ordered them to prepare to receive a cavalry charge. The front line went down on one knee, bracing the butts of their muskets firmly against the ground so that the points of their bayonets faced the oncoming cavalry in a thicket of pointed steel. The rear ranks thumbed back their firing hammers and took aim.

‘Fire!’ Ney roared and the order was repeated at once as flame and smoke spat at the enemy. From his saddle Napoleon saw scores of them topple from their mounts and tumble into the mud. The rest spurred on, thrusting their straight heavy blades towards the French as they attempted to charge across the muddy ground. The second and third ranks changed places and then another volley crashed out as the Austrians drew within fifty paces of Napoleon’s men. Horses and men tumbled down, forcing others to swerve round them or draw up, creating yet further confusion as the charge was forced to halt, a scant twenty paces from the waiting infantrymen.

‘That’s it, lads!’ Ney bellowed, as he punched his fist into the air. ‘Hit ’em hard!’

They fired another volley. This time the range was so close that hardly a shot missed and over a hundred more of the enemy cavalry went down. Napoleon rode forward to join his men, and saw that the rearmost Austrians were already breaking away, urging their mounts back up towards the ridge. The panic leaped from man to man and soon all the surviving cavalrymen were falling back. A handful of officers, with their guidons, tried to rally the men on the ridge, but they flowed past and carried on.

The French line continued forward, picking its way over the heaped bodies of men and horses, with a handful of shots as injured horses, lashing out in agony and terror, were put out of their misery to prevent them from causing injury with their iron-shod hooves.

Ney reined in alongside Napoleon, his expression flushed with excitement. ‘Did you see ’em? Ha! They bolted like rabbits. That’ll do our lads a power of good.’

Napoleon returned his grin. He felt his heart beating quickly and the familiar thrill at the prospect of victory, and, beyond that, the hope that he might yet overcome his enemies.

‘Press the attack, while their cavalry is disordered.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘That’ll be one enemy column less to deal with.’

Ney’s expression became more sober.‘One, yes. But how many more are there?’

‘Be assured, my friend, however many there are, as long as they serve them up to us one at a time, then we must win in the end.’

‘And if they are not so foolish as to do that?’

Napoleon turned away and made no reply as he stared ahead. Ney was right to fear that the enemy would learn from their mistakes and concentrate their forces. Napoleon hoped that he could inflict enough damage to cause the allies to pause, and possibly retreat. In that event he could present himself to the French people as their saviour and might yet buy enough time to rebuild the army so that it could engage the enemy on more even terms in the following year.

The rational part of his mind mocked him for his hopes. So much of his strategy depended on the enemy being utterly foolish, and his own men performing like the finest soldiers he had ever commanded. There was not one chance in ten of winning the present campaign, he told himself. And yet . . . what else could he do?

Napoleon’s thoughts were interrupted by Ney, who had pulled a little further ahead, and had now reached the crest of the ridge. On either side the line had halted and the men stared before them in silence. Napoleon dug his spurs in and cantered forward to join Ney, ready to bitterly rebuke the soldiers who were throwing away the chance to charge down the disordered enemy.

Instead, the words died in his mouth as he beheld the sight before him. Thousands of enemy infantry and horsemen were advancing across the countryside towards the slender French line. Dense columns rippled along lanes and over fields. Long trains of field guns and their wagons trundled amongst them. This was no rearguard they had encountered, but the vanguard of the main Austrian army itself.

‘My God,’ Ney muttered. ‘There must be sixty thousand of them. At least.’

Napoleon nodded.

Ney scrutinised the approaching horde for a moment. On either side, the French soldiers, who had been cheering loudly a moment earlier, now stood in silence, aghast at the horde marching towards them. The cavalry that they had broken was already rallying at the foot of the slope, and more columns of horsemen were cantering forward to reinforce them.

‘Sire, we cannot stand and fight. We must fall back. At once.’

Napoleon turned to inspect the ridge. The slope was steeper on the far side. He thought aloud. ‘We have a good position here. If we can get our guns up here, then—’

‘No, sire,’ Ney said firmly. ‘We cannot stand here. We will fall back across the river at Arcis and blow the bridge.’

Napoleon stared at him. ‘You dare to give the orders?’

‘I am the commander of these men,’ Ney replied defiantly.‘I will not order them to go to a pointless death.’

‘They are soldiers. They will do as their Emperor commands. As will you.’

‘No. I will not. I am in command here, and my order is that they retreat. You may stay and fight if you wish.’

Without waiting for Napoleon to respond, Ney pulled his reins and steered his mount forward towards his staff officers. ‘Fall back! Form column and march for the bridge at Arcis. In good order. This is not going to turn into a rout.’

Napoleon glared at him, speechless. His heart was filled with bitter outrage that Ney had defied him so forcefully to his face. Then he felt a stab of fear and anxiety. What had happened to his authority? Why did his presence no longer seem to effortlessly command the opinions of others? He watched Ney sidelong and wondered how much trust he could afford to place in his marshals any more. He felt a strange tingling in his arm and looked down to see that the hand holding his reins was trembling. He stared at it for a moment, then tightened his fingers and turned his mount towards Ney.

‘Take command here,’ he ordered flatly. ‘I’m returning to headquarters.’

‘Yes, sire,’ Ney replied with a curt nod.

‘Report to me later.’ Napoleon turned his horse about and spurred it into a gallop, back down the slope towards the river.

Napoleon remained at his headquarters for the next four days, anxiously reading reports from his patrols and the commanders of the hard-pressed armies struggling to delay the advance of the allies. After the skirmish near Arcis there had been no more reports of isolated allied columns small enough for Napoleon to risk attacking. The enemy had adapted their strategy, he realised grimly. On the evening of the fourth day there was a message from Marmont informing the Emperor that he was powerless to prevent the allies from taking Paris. At once Napoleon summoned Marshal Ney and thrust the despatch towards him. ‘Read.’

He settled into his chair by the fire and waited while Ney concentrated on the message. At length the marshal handed it back to Napoleon, who tossed it on to the fire. ‘I want as few men aware of the situation as possible. Clear?’

‘Yes, sire. What do you intend to do?’

‘There is nothing I can do to save Paris. The Prussians will reach the capital at least three days before we could.’ Napoleon paused a moment and then shrugged. ‘Paris will fall. Therefore it makes sense to order Marmont to gather every man that he can and abandon Paris and combine forces with us.’

‘And then?’

‘We march east, and strike towards the Rhine. If we cut the enemy’s supply lines, then there is still a chance to force an armistice on them and buy some time.’

‘For what?’

Napoleon looked at him in surprise. ‘Why, to continue the fight, of course.’

Ney sighed. ‘Sire, the war is lost. You are defeated. France must come to terms.’

‘Damn France!’ Napoleon slapped his hand on to his breast. ‘I am France. Me. And I will not surrender. Not while I yet draw breath.’

Ney returned his glare with a calm, almost pitying expression. ‘If Paris falls, then I will conduct my own negotiations with the Austrians.’

‘How dare you?’

‘Because I will do what is right, sire.’ Ney stiffened his back and bowed his head. ‘Is there anything else, sire?’

Napoleon’s lips pressed together in a thin line as he regarded his subordinate. Then, when his temper had subsided, he shook his head. ‘This is treason.’

‘No, sire. Treason is committed when a man betrays the interests of his nation. Any man.’

‘I see.’ Napoleon sneered. ‘Then I had better leave, and find myself a commander who still has the courage to fight.’

If Ney felt any anger at this slight to his bravery he showed no sign of it. Napoleon pointed towards the door. ‘Now get out of my sight.’

After Ney had left, Napoleon slumped down into his chair and gazed into the fireplace. He watched the languid flames slowly die down into a failing glow as the night drew on, and then, at midnight, called for his horse to be saddled and a cavalry escort to be made ready to ride within the hour.

Leaving Ney and his men behind, Napoleon and his escort rode south-west, to ensure that he did not run into any enemy cavalry columns scouting deep into the French countryside. They stopped briefly to rest the following night, and then crossed the Seine and turned west and north towards the capital. Villagers and townsfolk stopped in surprise to see their Emperor pass through, and even though some cheered Napoleon rode on heedlessly. He dared not stop now, not when a royalist, emboldened by the approach of the allies, might make an attempt on his life.

As evening drew in on the last night of the month, Napoleon reached Essonnes, twenty miles from Paris, and sent for the commander of the garrison to arrange for food and forage for his escort before they began the last leg of the journey. A portly officer with grey wispy hair came puffing up to Napoleon as he entered the garrison headquarters, and bowed low.

‘Sire, it is an honour to receive you.’

‘Later. My men and horses need feeding before we take the Paris road.’

‘Paris?’ The colonel frowned. ‘Then you have not heard?’

‘Heard? Heard what?’

The colonel licked his lips nervously. ‘Paris has fallen, sire.’

Napoleon stared at him, and then shook his head. ‘No. Not yet. Marmont said he could hold on for a few more days.’

‘Sire, Marshal Marmont surrendered the capital in the early hours. Paris is in the hands of the Prussians.’ The colonel saw the stricken expression of his Emperor and then glanced down, refusing to meet Napoleon’s eyes.‘I have a copy of the official proclamation, sire. Do you wish me to fetch it for you?’

‘No . . . no. That is not necessary. If it is as you say, then there is nothing left for me in Paris. There is only one place left for me now.’ Napoleon steeled himself. ‘One place where I can summon my men, and make a stand.’

Chapter 50

Fontainebleau, 4 April 1814

The grounds of the chateau, once the preserve of the imperial court, were covered with tents. Most were makeshift arrangements hastily sewn together by veterans who knew the value of any kind of shelter from the elements. The others belonged to officers and varied in size according to rank. Thankfully the winter had passed and the early days of spring brought clear skies and slight warmth to comfort the weary men of the French Army. Inside the chateau the splendours of the dйcor were largely lost on the staff officers and couriers, coming and going, trailing mud across the finely tiled floors and expensive rugs. The mood was sombre and a wary quiet embraced the men whenever the Emperor emerged from his study.

Looking at them, Napoleon could see that many had already accepted defeat and were performing their duties merely from force of habit, waiting for the order to finally stop. He could hardly blame them, even though they stood at the heart of an army of sixty thousand men. Every last available soldier and gun had been concentrated around the chateau and the engineers had thrown up earthworks to cover the approaches to the camp. Yet the allies had three times that number in Paris alone, and another army was cautiously advancing from the east. Marshal Marmont, having agreed the armistice, was still in camp a few miles south of Paris, but had refused to respond to Napoleon’s order to join him at Fontainebleau.

After a hurried breakfast of which he ate little, Napoleon had requested his marshals to attend him at the chateau. From the window of the private dining room set for the meeting Napoleon watched as they arrived, noting their grim demeanour as they dismounted and climbed the steps, which were lined by the men of the Old Guard standing to attention. At least there was still plenty of fight amongst the rankers, Napoleon reflected. When he had toured the camp on the previous two evenings they had cheered him as heartily as ever, as if encouraged by the prospect of making a last stand against the invader. MacDonald was the last of the marshals to arrive, and as soon as he had passed within the entrance Napoleon sent a clerk to summon them to his presence.

They filed in, silently, and took their seats. Napoleon glanced from face to face, scrutinising their expressions and appearance. They looked as tired as their men. Some had found fresh uniforms to dress in for this meeting but most were stained with splatters of mud andVictor had one arm in a sling from a wound he had taken a few weeks earlier. Napoleon cleared his throat and stretched his hands out on the table.

‘There is no need for any preamble, my friends; you know our situation. The question is, what should we do now? The army is still in being, the men’s morale is high and the people of France will not endure the presence of an occupying army for long. There is still everything to fight for. I need to decide whether to risk a battle on the streets of Paris itself, or attempt a wider strategic manoeuvre round the enemy’s flank. So, gentlemen, I need your advice on which course of action would best profit us.’

No one responded. Some exchanged looks, while others looked down or stared fixedly at some feature of the room.

‘Come, gentlemen, speak freely.’

‘Very well then, sire,’ Ney responded, half turning in his seat so that he could face his Emperor directly. ‘I speak for most of the marshals here, including those who were . . .’ his lips curled into a brief look of contempt before he continued, ‘unprepared to face the truth and say what needs to be said.’

‘And what would that be?’ Napoleon asked.

‘That France has fallen. Its armies are defeated. Its treasury is empty. The people want peace. There is no hope of overcoming the allies. It is plain for all to see. Even you, sire, must recognise the hopelessness of the situation.’

‘It is not hopeless,’ Napoleon replied, forcing himself to keep his voice calm. ‘Does your memory fail you? Our position was far worse at Marengo, yet we snatched a victory from the enemy by the end of the day.’

‘Marengo was a long time ago, sire. We were different men, fighting on foreign soil. If we had lost the battle, we would still have had a chance to win the campaign. Now? Paris is lost. There is nothing left to save. There is no reason to continue the war.’

‘There is every reason! While the army exists, and you and I still live. While either of us can still hold a sword in our hand and spit defiance at our enemies, there is a reason to continue the fight!’

Napoleon stared at him, wide-eyed and enraged, but Ney refused to give way and steadily returned his glare. ‘That, sire, is the counsel of a man who no longer regards war as a means to an end, but embraces it purely for its own sake.’

Napoleon was stunned. Ney had defied him before, in private, where such words could be forgiven and in time forgotten. But this? In front of his peers, the highest-ranking officers of the empire? What he had dared to say could never be retracted.

‘Marshal Ney, I dismiss you. Your rank and titles are forfeit, and you are banished from our presence for ever. Leave us now, and never return.’

Ney could not help a faint smile. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No. The war is over. I speak for all of us.’ He waved a hand round the other officers seated at the table. ‘Does any man deny it?’

There was no response. Napoleon leaned forward and pointed at MacDonald.‘You have sworn an oath to obey me. Would you betray me now, at the hour of my greatest need of you?’

MacDonald glanced at Ney and received a nod of encouragement before he replied.‘Sire, I also swore an oath to serve and protect France. I cannot honour both oaths. My duty to my country outweighs my duty to you, sire.’

‘Pah!’ Napoleon turned to Victor. ‘And you?’

‘I share the opinion of Marshal Ney, sire.’

Napoleon looked round at them.‘Is there no man with honour here? Well?’

His words hung in the ensuing silence, then Napoleon sneered. ‘Cowards all. If you will not obey me, then damn you. I shall summon Marmont to command the army under me.’

Ney shook his head, and reached into his jacket to pull out a folded piece of paper. ‘I have been in contact with Marmont since I arrived at Fontainebleau. He shares my views, sire. Indeed, he goes further. I received this at dawn. Marmont has gone over to the allies with his men. Talleyrand has established a provisional government and issued a decree that your reign is over.’

‘Give it to me!’

Ney slid the message across the table and Napoleon snatched it up, unfolded it and scanned the contents. His lips pressed together as he read the details for himself. He tossed it back and glared at his marshals with contempt.

‘So, not one of my marshals is prepared to fight. Very well, then I shall do without you, and promote more worthy men from amongst those officers who still know the value of loyalty and patriotism. At least I have no doubt that the rank and file will still obey me.’

‘No, sire. They will obey their marshals. Did you think we should confront you without first having talked this through with our subordinates? Sire, if you force the issue, the army will turn on itself - the officers against the men. Is that how you wish this to end?’

Napoleon gritted his teeth. He felt trapped, and clenched his fists in his lap as he stared at his officers defiantly. At length he slumped back into his chair and cleared his throat. ‘What would you have me do, then?’

‘Abdicate,’ Ney replied at once. ‘Go into exile.’

‘What?’

‘Abdicate, on the condition that you do so in favour of your son. At least that way, we spare France from any return of the Bourbons.’

Napoleon considered the idea, even though it pierced him to the soul. Defeat was one thing, humiliation quite another. The prospect of being reduced to the status of a prisoner, exiled to some European backwater for the rest of his life, was unbearable. He would be mocked by his enemies and pitied by his former friends and subjects, condemned to a life of lingering insignificance. The thought made him sick. On the other hand, as long as a Bonaparte was on the throne, then there would be a means for Napoleon to exercise his influence, and one day resume his powers. He looked at Ney, wondering if the man understood that such an abdication would only curtail his power temporarily. He took on a resigned air and nodded slowly. ‘You are right, my dear Michel. I must sacrifice my throne for the good of my people. They would expect nothing less of me.’

The current of relief that rippled through his officers was palpable. Even Ney’s stern demeanour melted momentarily as he could not help smiling at the outcome of the confrontation between the marshals and their Emperor.

‘Sire, your people will be eternally grateful to you for this.’

‘And so they should,’ Napoleon replied. ‘We’d better draft a proposal for our enemies.’

‘It is already done, sire,’ Ney admitted.‘I had Caulaincourt draw it up as soon as I had the news from Marmont. It only requires your signature and then the Foreign Minister and Marshal MacDonald will depart for Paris.’

Napoleon smiled coldly. ‘It seems that you have planned this well.’

‘If I have, it is because I learned from a good master.’

The compliment was a poor palliative that fooled no man in the room. Napoleon rose from his chair. ‘Then it is done. Make your offer to the allies and let me know the outcome. I will remain in the chateau. You, gentlemen, are dismissed.’ He looked round at them. ‘I just hope that you have made the right decision. If not, then France will never forgive you. Think on that.’

He turned away and strode towards the door, leaving Ney and the other marhsals to arrange the details of the negotiations with the enemy.

Caulaincourt and MacDonald rode out towards the allied outposts later that morning. For two days they negotiated with the commanders of the armies that had conquered Paris and were now closing in on the remnants of the Grand Army. Then they reported back to Napoleon, informing him that the allies would only accept an unconditional abdication. The decision on who should succeed him would be theirs alone.

In the days that followed, as the details of his fate were discussed in Paris, Napoleon fell into deep despair. He could not eat, and sat in a chair by a small fire, brooding in silence as his servants silently came and went, serving and removing meals that lay cold and untouched on their trays.

At length, Napoleon’s hand slipped inside his shirt and felt for the small pouch of belladonna and hellebore that he had kept hanging from his neck since the retreat from Moscow when he had so nearly fallen into the hands of the Cossacks. His fingers gently cupped the pouch and he pressed the soft leather, feeling the deadly powder within. There was little deliberation over the decision. His death would cheat the allies of their prize, and there was comfort and satisfaction to be had from that small victory.

Slipping the thin silk cord over his head, Napoleon withdrew the pouch and steadily untied the binding. He eased the leather open, and stared a moment at the powder, pallid as ground bones. Then he tipped it into a glass, taking care not to spill any of it, before pouring in some of the watered wine left on a meal tray. He stirred the mixture with his fork, then lifted the glass. He avoided smelling it, in case it caused him to hesitate, and provided the least excuse to reconsider his decision. He raised the glass to his lips and drank swiftly, setting the glass down with a sharp tap. Then he sat still, staring into space, shocked by the enormity of the deed. He smiled as he recalled his coronation, how he had taken the imperial wreath from the hands of the Pope and placed it on his own head, announcing to the world that none but Napoleon was worthy of crowning Napoleon. Now the same principle of greatness applied to his death. Only his hand was worthy of the act. That thought calmed his fear of the oblivion into which his mind would be cast, if not his fame. He coughed and then called for his servant.

‘Fetch Caulaincourt. Bring him to me at once.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘He is to bring pen and paper with him.’

The servant bowed his head and hurried away, leaving Napoleon to mentally compose his final testament.

By the time Caulaincourt appeared, Napoleon could already feel the poisons working upon him. Despite the fire, he felt cold, and shivered. His skin began to feel clammy and sweat pricked out on his brow. Inside, his guts clenched painfully, and an aching nausea tightened his throat.

‘Sire, you’re ill,’ Caulaincourt said the moment he sat down opposite his Emperor. ‘Let me summon your surgeon.’

‘No. There is no need. It’s too late for that. I am dying.’

‘Sire! I will get help.’

‘No!’ The effort of raising his voice caused a spasm of pain and Napoleon’s features twisted for a moment, until the worst of it had passed. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. ‘I have taken poison. This is the end.’

The Foreign Minister looked horrified. Napoleon touched his hand. ‘I want you to take down my final statement. I don’t know how much time is left. So we must begin. Quickly, Caulaincourt.’

‘Yes, sire.’ He nodded, and swiftly took out his notebook, rested it on his knees and poised the tip of his pencil on the paper.

‘I will give you the sense of it, then you will compose it for general consumption. Be faithful to my intent, but ensure that what is left is clearly expressed and well crafted.’

Caulaincourt nodded.

‘Very well. I wish it known that I was never the warmonger my enemies would depict me as. All I desired was peace and order amongst the peoples of Europe, even if that could only be achieved by subordinating their will to mine. I trust that my enemies will be as magnanimous in victory as I was when I triumphed over them. Therefore, all those who prospered under my reign should not be disgraced and punished under whatever rule is imposed hereafter. That includes my family, my heir and those gallant officers who have sacrificed so much for France. Their glory must not be denied, however much my fame is impugned and denigrated. They have rendered good service to France and France should honour them accordingly.’ He paused to make sure that Caulaincourt was keeping up, then, collecting his thoughts, he continued.‘If my son, the dearest being on this earth, is not to reign after me, then I wish that he is at least raised a Frenchman and given the opportunity to learn of his father’s achievements, without rancour. His mother, my beloved wife, Empress Marie-Louise, is free to return to her native Austria . . .’

A sudden surge of nausea swept through Napoleon and he leaned over the side of his chair and vomited. Caulaincourt started to rise, but Napoleon waved him back. He vomited again, and again. Each time it felt as if an iron fist was squeezing his insides like a vice. Then, when his stomach was empty, he continued retching, letting out tight groans as his head hung over the acrid stench rising from the glutinous puddle below. Finally the spasm passed and Napoleon lay back, shivering violently. His eyes flickered open and he looked at Caulaincourt.

‘I can say no more. I leave it to you to craft my testimony as elegantly as you can.’

Caulaincourt swallowed anxiously. ‘I will not fail you, sire.’

‘Good.’ Napoleon sat up and rose to his feet unsteadily. ‘Now help me to that couch.’

Caulaincourt laid aside his notebook and supported the Emperor’s weight as best he could as they made their way over to the couch. Napoleon collapsed upon it with a sigh.‘My thanks. For this, and all the services you have done me.’

‘Sire . . . I . . .’

‘Say nothing. Just leave me now. Tell the servants no one is to enter the room, for any reason. You can come back tomorrow and see . . . what has happened.’

‘Yes, sire. I understand.’

Napoleon took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Goodbye then. Now go.’

Caulaincourt hesitated for a moment, then returned to his chair to retrieve his notebook before walking steadily to the door and leaving the room. Once he had gone, Napoleon let out a groan and clutched his hands to his stomach. A fierce stabbing pain throbbed through his guts, and his entire body felt as if it was in the grip of some fever. The physician who had prepared the poison had told him it would be quick and relatively painless. Napoleon cursed him for a liar as he curled up on his side and waited for the end, the steady tick of a clock and the crackle of the fire marking the agonisingly slow passage of what time remained to him. The torment of the poison robbed him of the calm state of grace he had hoped would accompany his death. It occurred to him that this was what it must have been like for Lannes, and all those others, who had gone to their deaths slowly and in agony. There was no glory in this death, no sense of destiny, just the wretched writhing of an animal in its death throes, begging for an end to it all.

The hours passed, and death did not come, just more pain. As night gave way to dawn, and pale light crept through the gaps in the curtains of the study, Napoleon realised that he was not going to die after all. The poison, two years in the pouch, had lost its potency and had only served to deepen the humiliation to which he had been condemned. Gradually the fever passed, he stopped sweating and the agony in his stomach subsided, leaving him in despair.

At the eighth hour the door creaked open and Caulaincourt quietly entered the study, causing Napoleon to stir.

‘Sire, thank God!’ Caulaincourt exclaimed as he rushed over. ‘You live!’

‘So it seems,’ Napoleon whispered miserably.

‘Then I’ll summon the surgeon.’

Napoleon did not protest. If he was not to die, then what point was there in prolonging this suffering? ‘Call him then.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Caulaincourt jumped up, then sensing his master’s disappointment he paused. ‘Sire, you still live for a reason. Destiny must have a purpose for you yet.’

‘Really?’ Napoleon shook his head. He did not care any longer. He was too tired. He rolled on to his back and stared at the ceiling as Caulaincourt’s footsteps hurried away. If he had cheated death, then death had cheated him also.

‘Those are their final terms, sire,’ Caulaincourt reported to the Emperor three days later, handing over a sealed document. ‘The allies will allow you to retain the title of Emperor. You will be given the island of Elba to rule. The French treasury will provide you with an income of two million francs a year. You will be permitted to take a thousand soldiers with you, and any additional servants you may require. The Bonaparte family is to renounce all its other crowns in exchange for pensions provided by the French government, and the Empress will be granted the Duchy of Parma.’

Napoleon stared at the document in his hand, but did not open it. His pale skin still looked faintly waxy, as if it was stretched over his skull. The poison had left him feeling weak and apathetic and he could only stomach the lightest of meals. He lay, wrapped in a thick blanket, on a chaise longue in his study. He looked up. ‘In exchange for my unconditional abdication?’

‘Yes, sire,’ Caulaincourt nodded. ‘It was the best I could do. The Prussians were all for having you shot. I played on what was left of the regard the Tsar once had for you after the Treaty of Tilsit. It was the Tsar who offered you Elba.’

‘Nevertheless, I am to be exiled.’

‘Yes, sire. You will be required to remain on the island until the time of your death. You will not be permitted to enter into any treaty with another kingdom and you will accept a resident appointed by the allied powers through whom you will communicate with them.’

‘While this resident spies on me.’

Caulaincourt nodded.

‘I see.’ Napoleon cradled his forehead in one hand as he continued to stare at the document. ‘How long have they given me to consider their offer?’

‘You are to sign it at once for me to return to Paris. If they do not have your agreement by midnight tomorrow then the offer is withdrawn and a bounty will be offered for your capture.’

Napoleon’s lips curled at the insulting prospect of being treated like a criminal, but there was no time and no choice in the matter. He must accept.

‘Very well,’ he sighed wearily. ‘I thank you for your efforts, Caulaincourt. Now fetch me that inkwell and pen over there.’

While Caulaincourt crossed the study to the Emperor’s desk, Napoleon broke the seal and opened the treaty document. The clauses were simple and direct and a space had been left at the bottom for his signature. Caulaincourt returned and held out the pen, then removed the lid of the inkwell and offered it to Napoleon. ‘Sire?’

Napoleon gazed at the treaty with malevolence. Every point had been calculated to diminish his glory and that of his entire family. It was strange, he mused, that even offended as he was, there was no desire in him to continue the fight at this moment. Exhaustion and his recovery from taking the poison conspired to rob him of the urge to resist his enemies. Flattening the paper on the surface of the couch, Napoleon dipped the pen into the ink and tapped off the excess. He hesitated momentarily before hurriedly scratching his signature, and handing the pen back to Caulaincourt.

‘There.’

‘Yes, sire.’ The ambassador delicately took the treaty and wafted it in the air to speed the drying of the ink. ‘I’ll away to Paris immediately. When you receive confirmation that they have the treaty, you are to leave for Elba.’

‘So soon?’ Napoleon eased himself back down and pulled the covers over his chest. Elba? He recalled the island, a miserable nonenity off the coast of Italy. The allies had found him the smallest of possible kingdoms to rule. But not one person in the whole of Europe would fail to see that in reality Elba was nothing more than a prison. Napoleon closed his eyes and Caulaincourt quietly left the room.

‘Elba it is, then,’ Napoleon whispered. ‘For now.’

Chapter 51

Arthur

Toulouse, 13 April 1814

‘Do you think it might be a trick, sir?’ asked Somerset as he stood at Arthur’s side, squinting through his telescope towards the gates on the eastern side of the town. They had been opened some twenty minutes earlier, and now a small party stood a short distance in front of the defences. Through his own telescope Arthur could see that they were mostly civilians, clustered together under a white flag.

‘I think not. It seems that they want to parley,’ Arthur said. ‘After all, Soult has abandoned them. They have nothing to gain from defending the town.’

Even before dawn, Arthur’s cavalry patrols had discovered the French column, picking its way to the south-east under cover of darkness. General Hill had immediately set off in pursuit, with orders to observe Soult and not engage him. Toulouse was a valuable prize and the army needed to rest and recover from the previous day’s battle for the Heights of Calvinet which dominated the town.

‘Hm.’ Somerset slowly trained his telescope along the walls. ‘There are still plenty of cannon on the walls, and I can see some soldiers.’

‘That may be,’ Arthur muttered, then snapped his telescope shut. ‘However, there’s no harm in talking to them. Ride down there and see what they want.’

Somerset lowered his telescope and nodded. ‘And if they want to discuss terms, sir? What shall I say?’

‘They are to surrender, without conditions, else we will sack the town.’ Arthur paused, and then smiled thinly. ‘You might mention that we have a division of Spaniards with us who are inclined to show little pity to the French.’

Somerset looked shocked. ‘That’s hardly fair, sir. Morillo’s men are as disciplined as any in the army.’

‘Yes, but they don’t know that,’ Arthur replied patiently as he nodded towards the waiting Frenchmen. ‘Now then, don’t tarry, Somerset.’

Arthur watched as his aide mounted his horse and cantered down the slope to cross the canal that separated the Heights from the town. The Spanish corps and Beresford’s two divisions were stretched out along the Heights, on either side of Arthur’s command post, and their sullen mood was evident in the slowness with which they had roused themselves at dawn and apathetically set to digging the earthworks Arthur had ordered constructed in case Soult decided to counter-attack. Even though the French army appeared to have quit Toulouse, Arthur thought it prudent to continue the work. If nothing else, it gave his men something to take their minds off the bitter fighting of the previous day. It had cost the allies over four thousand men to take the Heights, and across the slopes, raked by roundshot and canister, were clusters of freshly dug graves. With the war all but over, Arthur felt such losses ever more keenly. Even so, all the news from the north was encouraging. Paris had fallen and Bonaparte and what was left of his army must surely be compelled to surrender soon.

The distant figure of Somerset had reined in before the small crowd in front of the gates and was engaged in conversation with a man who had emerged as their spokesman. Arthur raised his telescope to follow the exchange more closely. A moment later, Somerset dismounted and the Frenchman rushed forward to embrace him, kissing the British officer on both cheeks. A light breeze lifted the white flag behind them and now Arthur could make out a design that had been hidden in the folds, a blue fleur-de-lys, the emblem of the Bourbons.

So that was it, Arthur thought with relief: the royalists had taken over the town. A moment later Somerset was in the saddle again and galloping back across the canal and up the slope towards Arthur. His face was flushed with excitement as he reined in and swung himself down.

‘Sir, I have the honour to report that Toulouse is ours.’

‘Yes, I gathered.’

‘The mayor asks me to convey his fraternal greetings to you.’

‘That’s very fine of him, I’m sure.’

‘He asks if you will do him the honour of addressing him, and the other worthies, before entering the town.’

‘Not for the present.’ Arthur shook his head wearily. ‘There will be time for that. Tell the mayor that I would be grateful if he permitted me to set up my headquarters in his offices. When that is done I will be pleased to celebrate the liberation of Toulouse.’

‘Yes, sir,’ his aide replied, somewhat deflated. ‘As you wish.’

Arthur looked at him sternly. ‘Now then, Somerset, the war is not over, and the army must be commanded and its needs catered for. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Once we have attended to our duties, you will be free to enjoy the hospitality of Toulouse.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset glanced down towards the Frenchmen waiting outside the gate.‘What about them? They seem quite keen to greet their liberators, sir.’

‘Oh, damn it, then send Beresford. Let him enjoy the mob’s adulation if he likes.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Arthur stared towards the small crowd at the town gates.‘I’ll take my turn in Paris, when the time comes, if that makes you feel any better, Somerset.’

‘It does, sir.’ The aide smiled warmly.

While General Beresford and his officers, accompanied by several companies of grenadiers, basked in the adulation of the French townsfolk, Arthur and his staff officers entered by a smaller gate further along the wall. Somerset had arranged for one of the mayor’s clerks to lead them through the back streets to the town square. Every so often the thin young Frenchman would turn and grin and call out,‘Vive le Roi et vivent les anglais!’ and curious faces would appear at the windows and doors of the houses the small party passed by.

‘If that fellow keeps this up, we shall attract a crowd of our own,’ Arthur hissed testily.

‘You can hardly blame him, sir,’ said Somerset. ‘With the prospect that Napoleon will be forced to make peace any day now.’

The man cried out again and Arthur glared at him, to no effect, and let out an exasperated sigh. His officers read his expression and kept their silence for the rest of the short ride to the mairie.When they were shown to the suite of offices assigned to them they began to arrange the desks while they waited for the wagon carrying the army’s records chests to arrive. The sounds of the cheering carried to the heart of the town and every so often a small cluster of excited civilians would hurry by on their way to join the celebrations.

Early in the afternoon the mayor arrived, somewhat drunk, to invite Arthur and his officers to a special performance of patriotic songs and recitals to be held at the town’s theatre that evening, followed by a banquet. In the interests of cementing the friendship of the people of Toulouse, Arthur accepted, and grudgingly made arrangements to have a bath and shave while his baggage was collected from the camp. So it was that he was standing before a mirror, face lathered in soap and razor poised above his throat, when the door to the washroom was unceremoniously opened and Somerset rushed in, accompanied by another officer whom Arthur recognised as Colonel Ponsonby, from the army outside Bayonne.

‘What the devil?’ Arthur growled, lowering the razor. ‘You surprise me like that, and it won’t be an enemy bullet that takes me. I’ll die by my own bloody hand!’

‘Sorry, sir.’ Somerset thrust Ponsonby forward. ‘But you must hear the news.’

‘Ponsonby?’ Arthur frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was sent to find you directly General Hope received the officers sent from Paris.’

‘Officers? What officers?’

‘Colonel Cooke, and Colonel St-Simon of the French army, sir.’

‘Well?’

‘Sir, I have extraordinary news for you.’

There was no mistaking what the man would say. Arthur held up his hand to silence the colonel. ‘It’s peace. I knew that we would have it.’

‘Aye, sir, we’ve all expected it. But there’s more. Napoleon has abdicated.’

‘Abdicated? It’s time indeed.’ Arthur replied without thinking. Then the full truth of it struck him. Napoleon was finished. With no throne, he would no longer be able to threaten the peace of Europe. At once his severe expression was split by a wide grin. Tossing his razor down into the basin, he clasped Ponsonby’s hands. ‘Abdicated! You don’t say so?’

‘I do, sir.’

‘By God . . . by God, this is wonderful!’ He turned to Somerset and could not help laughing. His whole mind and body was seized by the most pure and irresistible delight. ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ Releasing Ponsonby’s hands, he snapped his fingers and hopped lightly from side to side. ‘That I should live to see this!’

‘Just what I was thinking,’ Somerset chuckled as he stared at his superior’s unprecedented display of jubilation.

The night’s banquet was a raucous affair as British, Spanish and Portuguese officers celebrated with their French counterparts from the town’s garrison. Just as the main course was cleared away the two colonels sent from Paris arrived, bearing the official despatch. Arthur read it through, then stood to announce to the hushed audience that Bonaparte was to leave France for ever before the end of the month. Louis, the brother of the previous king, was to be returned to the throne. As the cheers echoed round the banqueting hall he sent for champagne to toast King Louis. As the glasses were recharged General Alava, who had recently re-joined the army from Madrid, quickly stood up and raised his glass towards Arthur.

‘To Field Marshal the Marquess of Wellington, el liberador de Espaсa!’

A great roar of approval went up from the assembled officers and they downed their champagne. Then one of the Portuguese commanders made a new toast. ‘El Douro - saviour of Portugal!’ There was another cheer before the mayor of Toulouse staggered up and toasted Arthur in broken English. ‘To Monsieur Wellington. He save France!’

This time the cheering did not end. The officers thumped their fists down on the table in a deafening rhythm that set the remaining cutlery and glasses trembling. Arthur slowly rose at their acclamation. He bowed his head to each side, and tried to make his thanks, but it was impossible. At that moment, as he looked round at his men, it was not joy, nor triumph, that filled his heart. It was gratitude, and an almost paternal affection for those who had become closer than family to him.

Slowly the cheering subsided and then there was a respectful but expectant silence as they waited for him to speak. Arthur smiled nervously, then lowered his head and shook it gently, afraid his voice would betray the emotions that gripped him. Somerset saw his difficulty and hurriedly rose to his feet, leaning towards his commander.

‘Shall we have coffee, sir?’

‘What’s that?’ Arthur mumbled.

‘There’s been a deal of champagne drunk tonight. Some of the officers will need sobering up before they go back on duty.’

‘Yes. Coffee.’ Arthur nodded. He raised his head, and cleared his throat. ‘I, ah, thank you all, most humbly. And much as I hate to break up the night’s celebrations, it is time for coffee.’

Some groaned at his words, but most were just bemused, and happily cheered and clapped the suggestion.

As he sat down, Arthur turned to Colonel Cooke and his French companion. ‘Do you have a copy of the despatch for Marshal Soult?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then you must find him at once. Ride on, to the south-east. He cannot have more than a day’s start on you.’

‘Tonight, sir?’ Cooke replied, surprised.

‘Yes, tonight. Hill’s men are pursuing him, and I’ll not have one more life lost through any avoidable delay in getting the news through to Soult. Go now.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Cooke said, and gestured to Colonel St-Simon to follow him as he strode from the banqueting hall.

Most of the French soldiers in the south were eager to believe the news, but Soult refused to accept that his master had fallen until he received confirmation from the hand of Berthier. Having allowed his men to celebrate the victory, Arthur soon began to issue the orders for their withdrawal to Bordeaux, from where they would be shipped home to Britain in due course. While the men were excited by the prospect of returning home, their officers were less sanguine once the initial delight over the great victory had faded. For many of them peace would mean half-pay and no chance of further promotion.

While the army began to adjust to the prospect of peace after two decades of war, Arthur travelled to Paris to take his place amongst the victors as they led the parade through the streets towards the Tuileries. There, the new King of France would review the soldiers and offer his gratitude for the sacrifices made by the allies in ridding Europe of the scourge of the Corsican Tyrant.

On 3 May, the day before the parade, Somerset presented Arthur with a letter from the Prince Regent as he sat eating his breakfast in his rooms in the suite provided for him and his staff in the Tuileries. Arthur lowered his knife and fork and finished chewing a morsel of lamb chop as he broke the seal and read through the contents. At length he lowered the letter on to the table and picked up his knife and fork to continue his breakfast. Somerset let out a low sigh of frustration.

‘Well, sir?’

Arthur cut off another chunk of lamb and glanced up. ‘I have been offered the embassy here in Paris. Oh, and it is confirmed that I am officially gazetted as the Duke of Wellington.’

Somerset beamed. ‘And not before time. May I be the first to offer my congratulations, your grace?’

‘I thank you, Somerset. It is, as you say, overdue, in as much as it honours all those who have served under me these last years.’

It might have sounded like a platitude from another man, but Somerset knew his commander well enough to know that the sentiment was heartfelt. For his part, Arthur felt a pang of resentment that this recognition of the army’s achievement should have been delayed by the enemies of his family in Parliament. The wretchedness of petty political intrigue had constantly threatened to undermine him and his men throughout their campaigns in the Peninsula. Well, it was better that reward came late than not at all.

Somerset looked out of the window, across the public square outside the palace, and saw that the crowds had already begun to mass along the route of the procession.‘You’ll have quite an audience today, your grace. All come to see the general who trounced Bonaparte’s marshals.’ Somerset paused. ‘It is a shame that you never had the chance to face him in battle.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘No, I am glad that I never did. I would at any time rather have heard that a reinforcement of forty thousand men had joined the French army, than that he had arrived to take command.’

‘Be that as it may, I have every confidence that you would have beaten him, your grace. You are the better general.’

‘Well, we shall never put it to the test. In any case, I’ll not be appearing before Paris as a soldier. The war is at an end, and as I am to be ambassador, then I shall dress as a diplomat. A plain coat, white stock and breeches and round hat will give the right impression, I think. Now then, if I might finish my breakfast in peace?’

‘As you wish, your grace.’ Somerset bowed his head and left the room.

Popping another chunk of lamb into his mouth Arthur chewed quickly. It was a strange quirk of fate that while he had beaten the cream of Bonaparte’s marshals, and Bonaparte had beaten most of the allies’ finest commanders, the two of them had not clashed. It was inevitable that the Corsican’s apologists would for ever claim that their hero would have mastered the British commander had they met, Arthur mused.

The parade of the allied leaders and their finely turned out soldiers was greeted by cheers of joy by the vast majority of the crowd. Only a handful watched with sullen resentment, Arthur noticed as he rode beside Castlereagh, returning the crowd’s acclaim with a curt nod of the head or brief wave of his gloved hand.

Castlereagh leaned towards him. ‘Odd, ain’t it? You fight the French for over twenty years, and then they greet you like a hero.’

‘Peace and deliverance from tyranny are apt to make one cheerful,’ Arthur replied drily.

‘Indeed.’ Castlereagh waved to the crowd, and drew a fresh cheer from them as they waved hats and coloured strips of cloth in a shimmering frenzy. His expression hardened briefly. ‘Then ’tis a shame that the new King of Spain has failed to learn the lesson. You have heard of the troubling situation in Spain, I take it.’

Arthur nodded. On his return from exile at Valenзay, Ferdinand had immediately set about imposing his authority in the harshest possible manner. All the reforms that had been instituted by the Cortes had been overturned and those who protested were thrown into jail. It was a hard thing for the Spanish people, who had fought one tyrant for so long, to have another imposed upon them.

‘Very well, then,’ Castlereagh continued. ‘I shall need you to go to Madrid as soon as possible and try to talk some sense into the King.’

‘Me?’

‘Why not? You are the man who liberated them from the French, after all. You have more moral authority there than any man I could send, and, I dare say, more than even their new King.’ Castlereagh paused to smile brilliantly at a distinguished-looking woman watching the procession from a balcony. ‘Madame de Staлl. A brilliant mind, that woman. You must look her up when you return here to take charge of our embassy. Speaking of women, you must be looking forward to seeing that wife and those sons of yours, eh? First time in years. By God, your boys must have been infants when you left.’ Castlereagh glanced at him with a kindly expression. ‘I fear you shall be as a stranger to them all.’

Arthur thought a moment. The prospect of returning to Kitty troubled him. He had been a soldier for far longer than he had been a husband, and he feared that peace would make the strains of their marriage unavoidable. He cleared his throat.‘I will see to my men at Bordeaux first. I owe them my thanks, and I must see that they are returned to Britain as swiftly as possible. Then I shall return home to my family.’

Castlereagh looked surprised, and then shrugged. ‘As you will. Though I dare say that your nation will want its share of you before you can be allowed to enjoy the privacy of family life. You must know that all England holds you in far higher regard than even these people.’ He gestured at the cheering crowd. ‘Best get used to being the darling of the public, Wellington.’

Arthur nodded, but inside he felt himself shudder at the prospect. The affections of the mob were as changeable as the winds, and just as lacking in substance. So much had happened in the space of a month, he reflected. It was hard to measure the passage of days when each was so filled with events. The pace had been delirious, yet Arthur knew that he had an obligation to his soldiers to ensure that they were able to reap the profits of peace as soon as possible.

Once the celebrations in Paris were over Arthur returned to the army’s new headquarters at Bordeaux to oversee the dispersal of the soldiers who had served him, and England, so well during the war in the Peninsula and southern France. The British regiments were bound for a variety of destinations. Most would return to Britain, but some were destined for Ireland, the West Indies and the ongoing war in the American colonies.

The first formations to leave the army were the remaining Spanish troops, and then the Portuguese, setting off towards the Pyrenees, cheering Arthur as they marched past. The only ticklish business was what to do with the small army of camp followers, especially the ‘soldiers’ wives’ - the women who had attached themselves to many of the British soldiers, and borne them children. Very few were allowed to accompany their men back to England, and not a few of the soldiers simply refused to accept responsibility for them. So it was that Arthur watched a third column, weighed down by misery and the fear of an uncertain future, as it tramped away towards the border along with a motley collection of mules and carts.

It remained for Arthur to draft the last of his General Orders before the army was broken up. As he wrote, late into the evening of his last night with his soldiers, Arthur was well aware that he had honed the finest army in Europe and his men would have marched anywhere and done anything at his command. For all the desire for peace that burned in his heart he could not help feeling regret over the loss of such a formidable body of soldiers. Soon, all that was left to them would be the memories of their campaigns, the slowly dwindling impressions of battles that had shaped history. These would be tales recounted by stooped veterans to generations yet to be born, few of whom would ever grasp the significance of what Arthur’s men had achieved, outnumbered and far from home.

While he was certain to have won his place in the memory of his nation Arthur was saddened to think that those lesser in rank who had fought at his side were destined to slip into his shadow. He paused a moment to collect his thoughts before penning the last paragraph.

Although circumstances may alter the relations in which the Field Marshal stood towards his men, so much to his satisfaction, he assures them that he shall never cease to feel the warmest interest in their welfare and honour; and that he will be at all times happy to be of any service to those to whose conduct, discipline and gallantry their country is so much indebted.

Arthur lowered his pen and read through the order. The words seemed a poor vehicle for the sense of affection and obligation that filled his heart. He could only hope that the men understood him well enough by now to see beyond the words. He called for Somerset to take the order for duplication and distribution throughout the army. Then he made his way up to his sleeping chamber. The hour was late, well past midnight, and at first light he would be leaving his men, his comrades, and returning home.

Chapter 52

London, 24 June 1814

‘By God, I’ve had enough of this,’ Arthur muttered wearily as the carriage and mounted escort halted yet again as the crowd blocked the way ahead. Ever since he had landed at Dover the previous day, Arthur had been thronged by his countrymen. Word of his return had spread along the road to London well ahead of his carriage and excited mobs of men, women and children, of all social stations, waited to catch a glimpse of the man who had delivered them, and Europe, from the clutches of the French Emperor. At first Arthur had been happy to rise up and lean out of the window to return their greetings, but as each occasion caused further delay, he settled back into his seat and merely nodded or waved as they approached the capital.

Now they were stuck in a street not far from Westminster Bridge. Outside, the cheery faces of the people contrasted with the grimy brickwork of a tannery from which smoke and stench curled into the warm air of a summer’s day. Turning to look through the small window under the driver’s bench, Arthur could see that a large man had stopped the carriage and was gesturing to his friends to take the reins of the six horses that had pulled it from the last posting inn.

‘What the devil is he doing?’ Arthur muttered.

‘Do you wish me to go and see, your grace?’ asked Somerset.

‘By all means. Tell the fellow to clear the way and let us through.’

Somerset nodded, and opened the carriage door. Immediately there was a deafening cheer from outside, which swiftly fell away as Somerset looked up and the people could see that it was not their hero. He stepped down on to the road, shutting the door behind him. ‘Let me through! Out of my way there!’

Arthur settled back into his seat and stared at the rear of the carriage, ignoring the faces pressed round the small windows of each door. Outside he heard a voice calling out above the din of the crowd.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, we don’t mean no ’arm. Me and these others are just wantin’ ter drag ’is grace’s carriage to ’is ’ome. Back to the arms of ’is good lady wife.’

Arthur hissed a sigh. This was the traditional way that the mob paid their respects to English heroes. They had done it for Pitt and Nelson, and now him. Five years earlier, during the Cintra inquiry, they had been bellowing for his head. He had no wish to humour their fickle mood. Besides, the spectacle of being dragged through London by this baying mob would be demeaning. As Somerset attempted to reason with the man, Arthur slapped his hand down on his thigh.

‘Damn it!’ he growled. ‘I’ll not stand for it.’

He rose from his seat and opened the door, dropping quickly to the ground. Those closest to him were stunned into silence by his abrupt appearance and Arthur pressed through them towards the six men from the Life Guards who had been sent to Dover to escort him. He clicked his fingers at the nearest rider.

‘I need your horse.’

‘Your grace?’ The rider looked at him in surprise.

‘Be so good as to dismount,’ Arthur said evenly.‘I require your horse. I shall ensure that it is returned to you when I have finished with it.’

As soon as the man had slid down, Arthur climbed into the saddle and quickly took the reins. The nearest people in the crowd looked on curiously, while up ahead others continued to unharness the carriage, oblivious of what was going on behind it.

‘The escort can return to barracks,’ Arthur instructed the sergeant commanding the six men. He had no wish to attract undue attention as he made his way through London to the house in Hamilton Place. As the sergeant saluted, Arthur turned the horse towards a side street and waved his hand.

‘Make way!’

The horse clopped forward, and the crowd parted. Arthur trotted into a side street lined with small shops. Many of the windows were decorated with coloured ribbons and several had crude prints of a soldier whose uniform was gaudily hung with medals and stars. With a mental wince Arthur realised that these were depictions of him and he gave thanks that he was dressed in his blue coat. Doing his best to avoid the eyes of anyone he passed,Arthur followed the street and then turned right towards the Thames and emerged on to the embankment. Glancing downriver towards Westminster Bridge, he could see that the bridge and the approaches to it were packed with people, so he turned away to find another crossing.

It felt strange to be back in England again, after four years of campaigning in foreign lands. For almost all that time his companions had been soldiers. Now he was surrounded by civilians who had carried on with their lives largely untouched by the war that had been fought on the sea and over foreign lands, Arthur was not sure which felt more unreal, the world he had just emerged from, or the one into which he was returning.

He passed by familiar, and yet somehow not familiar, landmarks with a growing sense of trepidation as he entered Piccadilly. His heart began to beat faster, and he slowed his horse as he approached the entrance to Hamilton Place. There he stopped, looking down the houses lining the wide street towards the door where Kitty and his children awaited him. The news of his return to England would surely have reached them by now and Arthur wondered if they were sitting inside, watching the street for the first sign of him. He edged his mount over to the corner, to keep out of sight.

What was holding him back, he wondered. It was almost as if he dared not continue. For a moment he was tempted to ride on, and report his return to Horseguards, and perhaps visit Richard. Anything but face Kitty and two sons he barely knew.

‘Damned fool!’ he muttered to himself. This was how wars ended. No man could or should fight for his entire life. War was a necessary evil, as Arthur had frequently pointed out to his officers, and its sole purpose was the restitution of peace and the return of soldiers to the arms of their families. And yet here he stood, on the threshold of his return, reluctant to cross it.

With a quick kick of his heels and a tug on the reins Arthur turned the horse into Hamilton Place and trotted along the row of neat steps rising to imposing columned entrances. He drew up outside the house and eased himself down from the saddle. Hitching the reins to the railing, he took a calming breath and climbed the steps to the front door. Before he could reach it, the door opened, and there stood Kitty, in a plain muslin dress, drawn close beneath her bust as if she were still a young girl at the court of the Viceroy in Dublin. She squinted slightly and her bottom lip trembled until she bit down on it gently.

‘Arthur?’ She raised a hand to her face. ‘Arthur.’

He stood still and stared at her for an instant, and then nodded. ‘I’ve come home.’

He felt a fool as soon as he said it, and then stepped up and took her hands in his. Any more words he might have said dried in his throat as he looked down at her. She seemed older than he had thought she would. There were faint creases around her eyes and the eyes themselves had lost the sparkling lustre he had recalled whenever he had thought of her in the Peninsula. Yet there was still the same small nose and fine lips that had first caught his attention.

Then she smiled, shyly, and Arthur could not help a nervous laugh, relieved that his pleasure at seeing her felt genuine. ‘By God! I’ve come home!’ He laughed and drew her to him, kissing her on the forehead, then again on the cheek and lastly on the lips, until she pulled back with a surprised look.

‘Arthur! People will see.’

‘Let them.’ He cupped her cheek and kissed her on the lips again. Now Kitty laughed, and tugged his sleeve, pulling him inside the door. A servant stood to one side, staring at the opposite wall as he reached for the door and began to close it.

‘Wait,’ Arthur intervened. ‘That horse needs returning to its master.’ He turned to the servant. ‘Might I know your name?’

‘Jenkins, your grace.’

‘Well then, Jenkins, I have an errand for you. The horse belongs to a trooper of the Life Guards. I’d be obliged if you returned it to him at once.’

The servant glanced at the animal with little enthusiasm, and then bowed his head. ‘As you wish, your grace.’

He left the house, closing the door behind him. They were alone, and he kissed Kitty again, closing his eyes and breathing in her scent, as if for the first time. Then he pulled back and arched an eyebrow. ‘I believe I have two sons somewhere?’

She grinned and gestured towards the open door of the front parlour. Arthur walked slowly towards it, seeing a mental image of the two infants he had left behind years before. Sunlight was pouring in through the tall sash windows and seated on a window seat, looking out into the street, sat Arthur and Charles. They looked round as he entered and stared at him.

‘Oh, come now!’ Kitty beckoned. ‘You know this is your father. He has returned home.’

They rose up obediently and stepped across the room, stopping two paces in front of Arthur and bowing their heads nervously.

‘How do you do, Father,’ the older boy said formally, as he had been taught to do.

Arthur gazed at them, his heart filled with a profound melancholic ache. These were his sons. His flesh and blood, whom he had come to love in the abstract. He felt that he should show them some affection. He should do what any father would in the same circumstances. Yet something held him back. Both boys were unable to conceal their nervousness as they looked up at him warily. There was a pause, then Kitty touched Arthur on the sleeve.

‘You have had a long journey. I expect you might like some refreshment.’

‘Yes. Yes, I would. Some tea, if you please, Kitty.’

She smiled warmly as he spoke her name. Then she looked at him and cocked an eyebrow. ‘No baggage?’

‘It is on the carriage. It will come shortly.’

‘Good.’ She smiled again. ‘I’ll leave you with our boys.’

Arthur felt a stab of panic but before he could reply Kitty had left the room. He turned back to his sons and cleared his throat. ‘Hah. Hm. Well then . . .’

They stared back mutely, and the silence was painful and awkward. Then the youngest, Charles, looked down at his feet and spoke quietly. ‘Did you really beat the French tyrant, Father?’

‘Yes, I did.’ Arthur cocked his head to one side. ‘That is to say, I beat his minions. Alas, I did not have the chance to beat the tyrant himself.’

‘Oh . . .’ The boy looked so surprised and disappointed that Arthur could not help chuckling.

‘But the war is over, isn’t it, Father?’

‘Yes, it’s over. Bonaparte is defeated and we shall have peace, and with luck you two shall never have to go and fight an enemy for as long as you live.’

‘But I want to be a soldier,’ the older boy said. ‘Just like you.’

Arthur looked at him fondly. ‘A soldier you may be, but I pray that you shall never have to fight in such a war as I have. Come.’ He reached out to them and they hesitantly let him take their hands. Arthur squeezed them lightly. ‘Let’s go over to the window seat and we shall talk all about it.’

The celebrations that had begun in Paris continued in London with equal extravagance. Tsar Alexander and King Frederick William, together with their courts, joined the great pageant. Once again the focus was upon Arthur as the foremost man amongst the ranks of those who had opposed Bonaparte. The flow of rewards and honours laid at his feet seemed endless. He entered the House of Lords bearing the titles of Viscount, Earl, Marquess and Duke. He was presented with the freedom of towns across England while Oxford awarded him an honorary doctorate. At the service of thanksgiving in St Paul’s Cathedral, Arthur carried the sword of state. The leading politicians of both the Whig and the Tory persuasion courted him relentlessly, entreating him to name his political office in return for his allegiance. Arthur turned them down with as much politeness as he could muster.

While Arthur was the darling of the social world, his domestic situation troubled him. Within weeks of his return Kitty’s shortcomings, overlooked in the first flush of pleasure at being reunited, came back to the fore. Though earnest and eager to play her part as the wife of the nation’s hero, Kitty lacked the sophistication, and indeed the beauty, of many of the women Arthur encountered in society. It pricked his heart to make such unfair comparisons. Her short-sightedness condemned her to squint or stare blankly at balls and dinners, and she quickly fell victim to the suspicion that she was being spoken about or mocked by those she could not clearly see. She would fall quiet, retreating into the safety of silence, while the world paid court to her husband.

Nor was it easy to step into the role of a father. All that Arthur and Charles knew of him was refracted through the public adulation that had greeted his victories. So the boys had come to know him as a distant hero and were inclined to regard him with awe, finding it difficult to accept him as merely a father. Arthur tried to spend as much time with them as possible, but that summer his public life all but consumed every day, and they became an extended part of his audience, looking on from a distance.

Gradually the celebrations died down. The foreign dignitaries returned to the Continent and minds turned towards adapting the world to peace. Less than a month later Arthur and Somerset were in Brussels inspecting the British army placed under his command before he went to take up the embassy in Paris. A handful of the officers or men were veterans and the army was too small to mount any kind of intervention in France. The King of the Netherlands, though an ally, was wary of showing too much favour to the foreign troops on his soil. His newly acquired Belgian subjects were still loyal to France, and many of them had served Bonaparte faithfully during his last campaigns. So the British soldiers were denied access to the forts and towns along the border and remained in camp around Brussels.

True to his military training, Arthur ensured that his officers were aware of the need to be ready to march at short notice. He also spent several days riding across the countryside, noting its potential uses for his army. On the last day before leaving Belgium to ride to Paris, Arthur and Somerset trotted out along the road from Brussels that passed through the forest of Soignes before heading towards the border. They reined in on a low ridge overlooking the ground to the south. Behind them the woods opened out a short distance beyond the bottom of the reverse slope.

‘See there, Somerset.’ Arthur indicated the ground behind them. ‘Enough cover for a large army.’

Somerset glanced round and nodded.

‘And there, on the forward slope: a number of walled farmhouses that could easily be fortified to break up any attacks made on the ridge.’ Arthur scrutinised the landscape for a moment longer and clicked his fingers. ‘Mark this ground.’

‘Yes, your grace.’ Somerset fumbled with his saddlebag and pulled out his map case. Unfastening it, he took out the map and found the location, then folded the map and rested it on the leather case. He picked up a pencil and held it poised. ‘There it is. Mont-St-Jean, your grace.’

‘Mont-St-Jean,’ Arthur repeated quietly.‘And that village a mile or so back, what was it called?’

‘Waterloo, your grace.’

‘Very well, make a note. Good ground to fight on,’ he said approvingly. ‘Damned good ground. Should the need ever arise.’

He urged his horse forward, and Somerset hurriedly packed his materials away before spurring his horse after his commander as he clopped down the road. On either side fields of wheat grew chest high, and a light breeze caused the heads of the crops to sway in a gently shimmering ripple. For a moment Arthur felt his spirits lift as he put his concerns aside and gazed out across the peaceful countryside.

Chapter 53

Paris, November 1814

A fine drizzle filled the air as the men of the King’s bodyguard paraded in the great courtyard of the Tuileries. Arthur was standing beside the Duke of Angoulкme reviewing the soldiers as they marched past the platform. Many of them sported the whiskers that had been the fashion of the former Imperial Guard, and there was something in their eyes that chilled Arthur even more than the cold weather of late autumn.

‘How many of these men are veterans of the Old Guard?’ he asked quietly.

The French aristocrat smiled. ‘We inducted more than half of them.’

‘You compelled them?’

‘It was not necessary. They were pleased enough to have the chance to continue wearing a uniform. It was that, or return to the streets and go hungry.’

‘And you trust them?’

‘Why not? They would be nothing without the new regime. Their Emperor is gone, the war is over. They have had to adjust, along with the rest of the people.’

Arthur watched the next company march past before he replied. ‘I hope you are right.’

‘Of course I am. The Corsican Tyrant is no longer a danger to Europe. I understand that he is busying himself on Elba with improving the lot of his new subjects. But then I am sure you are better informed of his activities than I am.’

‘Our resident sends regular reports of Bonaparte’s activities,’ Arthur admitted. As part of the treaty which had provided for the French Emperor’s exile the British government had appointed a resident on Elba, Colonel Campbell, to keep a close watch on Bonaparte and keep track of those who visited him on the island, mostly former admirers and those curious to see the great man in his gilded cage. As a matter of course his former commanders were barred from speaking to him, but there was no preventing third parties from carrying messages.

‘What does your resident say in his reports?’

‘That Bonaparte reads the newspapers avidly, and is engrossed in writing his memoirs, and that he abides by the terms of the treaty. He presents no threat to the peace of Europe, as you say.’

‘Perhaps,’ the French aristocrat mused. ‘All the same, it was a shame that he was not put to death. Then we might have finally quashed Bonapartist sentiment in France.’

‘If he had been put to death, I fear the streets of Paris would have run with blood as his supporters and yours tore each other’s throats out.’

The Duke of Angoulкme glanced coldly at Arthur.‘Sometimes blood is the price of peace and security.’

‘And sometimes it does not have to be,’ Arthur replied firmly. ‘More than enough blood has already been shed.’

The Frenchman turned back to watch the soldiers with a dismissive grunt. After a moment Arthur reached up and adjusted his stock to keep as much of the drizzle from his neck as possible.

While the review continued his mind turned to the wider situation in Paris. He had taken up his position as ambassador nearly three months earlier, and at first he had been gratified by his reception into Paris society. The British government had purchased the mansion of Pauline Bonaparte to serve as an embassy and the accommodation was as comfortable as anything Arthur could have wished for; it had pleased Kitty too when she joined him in October. Since his arrival Arthur had been welcomed into the Parisian salons, and Madame de Staлl had proved a useful ally in assisting him to promote his government’s case for the abolition of the French slave trade. He had even met many of the marshals and generals who had once served Bonaparte and was pleased by the cordial, and often friendly, mood which had accompanied their discussions of their experiences during the recently ended war.

But as the weeks passed and Arthur came to better know the general mood of the French capital, he began to grow concerned. The Bourbons might well be back in power, but the public enthusiasm for the return of peace and the restoration of the monarchy had swiftly given way to discontent. On several occasions Arthur had witnessed small gatherings of men in cafйs toasting their former Emperor. Then, only the day before the review of the royal bodyguard, stones had been thrown through the windows of the embassy.

Nor was the news from Vienna any more encouraging. Castlereagh’s coded despatches revealed that a formal alliance between Russia, Prussia and Austria was still a very real danger. Both he and Talleyrand were striving to draw Austria away from the others in order to maintain an equilibrium in Europe. Otherwise, a new war might be unavoidable.

The Duke of Angoulкme leaned towards him. ‘Time for the finale, my dear Wellington. Look there.’

He pointed across the courtyard to where the bodyguard was forming a line, two deep, facing the review stand. The Frenchman glanced at Arthur and smiled.‘Now for a small piece of theatre. Shall we see how the audience reacts?’ He gestured subtly to the officers and artistocrats and their wives watching the review on the platform behind. Across the parade ground the colonel in charge had drawn his sword and now bellowed the order to make ready to fire. Up came the muskets.

There was an anxious murmur from behind Arthur and he glanced round and saw that the Duke of Angoulкme’s party were stirring uneasily, forgetting the discomfort caused by standing in the cold and damp. The Duke laughed lightly as he spoke softly to Arthur. ‘Nothing to worry about. They’re firing blank rounds. I thought it would be entertaining to give our guests some idea what it might be like to be on the receiving end of a volley.’

‘Really?’ Arthur replied flatly. ‘I can assure you that there is a world of difference between mere smoke and noise, and the actuality.’

The Duke shrugged, and fixed his attention on the line of soldiers as they aimed their muskets across the parade ground towards the reviewing platform. The colonel barked an order and an instant later fire and smoke burst out, obscuring the line of soldiers, an instant before the deafening crash echoed off the walls of the palace. Arthur sensed rather than heard the faint whip through the air, almost lost in the din of the volley. A sharp crack came from behind and he turned quickly. Two panes of glass in the windows of the palace had shattered, just above the heads of the audience, and in line with Arthur and the Duke. Some of the guests turned to look and gasped in alarm, instinctively edging towards the steps at either side of the platform. Others gazed up, aghast, and then turned anxiously back towards the soldiers. The colonel was continuing to give orders, oblivious of those on the platform, and the bodyguards shouldered their muskets and began to march away, through an arch, as they returned to barracks.

Arthur turned back to the Duke of Angoulкme who stood rigidly, hands clenched into fists at his sides. ‘Treason,’ he muttered.‘Treason. I’ll have the culprits found and shot with their own weapons.’

His jaw was trembling as he finished speaking, whether from fear or rage Arthur could not tell. Arthur shook his head. ‘I don’t think there’s much hope of finding the men responsible. Even if anyone knew which men took the shots, the chances are that they will close ranks and keep their mouths shut.’

‘Then they’re all in on it,’ the Duke continued. ‘Traitors all. I’ll flog the truth out of them.’

‘You do that, and they will turn on you,’ Arthur warned him. ‘By all means find the culprits, but do it quietly, and do it later. For now you must act as if nothing had happened.’ He indicated the guests. ‘Or you will alarm them.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ The Duke nodded as he fought to steady his nerves. He cleared his throat and forced a smile as he waved towards the doors leading into the palace. ‘My friends, now that the review is complete, refreshments await within!’

With Arthur at his side, he led the way down the steps and across the gravel towards the doors, which were hurriedly opened by footmen. Behind them the rest of the audience followed, muttering in muted tones as some of them took a last glance across the courtyard in case the soldiers returned.

‘Not a word to my wife about this, do you understand?’ Arthur said to Somerset as he related the attempt on his life later that afternoon back at the embassy.

‘Of course, your grace. But are you certain you were the target?’

‘There were two shots fired; there could have been more.’ Arthur recalled the scene briefly as he stood, several paces back from the window of his office, and looked down into the boulevard where a steady stream of Parisians trudged past in the rain. He continued grimly, ‘The shots were aimed at me, and the Duke. I have no doubt of it. They intended assassination. And it’s not the first time that England’s enemies have contemplated the act.’

Somerset nodded. There had been other reports of such plots from local agents, in the pay of the embassy. These had been passed on to London, and the Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, had informed Arthur that they were reconsidering his appointment as ambassador.

Arthur puffed out his cheeks. ‘Now then, we must think on the implications of this afternoon’s attempt on my life. Pass the word to our agents, that they are to keep their eyes and ears open for any hint of another plot. I want to know everything. Also, the embassy’s officials will need to be aware of the threat. They will need to be diligent about their safety whenever they leave the embassy. I will take an escort with me from now on. Pick four good men. They are to ride behind my carriage when I go out. They are to dress plainly and keep their weapons out of sight. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, your grace. And what of your wife’s excursions?’

‘My wife?’ Arthur stroked his chin. ‘I’ll speak to her first. At dinner.’

‘I don’t understand, my dear.’ Kitty shook her head. ‘If there is nothing to fear, then why should I curtail my social rounds?’

‘It is just a precaution,’ Arthur replied gently. ‘You’ve seen how it is in the streets. The Bonapartists are more open about their grievances than ever. Now is not a particularly good time to be English in Paris. But it will pass. The new regime will not tolerate them for much longer.’

Kitty cheerfully sawed into another piece of beef as she replied, ‘My dear Arthur, I have not seen anything to discomfort me when I am abroad. But if it is your wish that I exercise caution, then I will.’

‘Thank you, Kitty.’

She popped her fork lightly into her mouth and chewed the meat before she spoke again. ‘And what of the children? Are they to join us at Christmas, as we planned?’

Arthur had already considered this, and nodded. ‘Let them come. I am sure there is no danger. Besides, if they did not come our French hosts might be offended.’

‘Oh?’

‘Kitty, we must show them that we are not fearful. We must continue as normal.’

‘You said there was no danger.’

‘Nor is there. No real danger.’

Kitty paused and narrowed her eyes as she stared across the table at her husband.‘You are not telling me the whole truth, are you? What has happened, Arthur?’

‘Nothing that need concern you, my dear,’ he replied, with what he hoped was a comforting smile. ‘Perhaps I am being over-cautious.’

‘And perhaps you are endangering our sons.’

Arthur stared at her for a moment. ‘I would never do that. Believe me. They will be safe enough in Paris, I give you my word.’

‘Safe enough?’

‘By God, Kitty, I tell you they will be safe!’ Arthur snapped. ‘Arthur and Charles will join us here. It is decided.’

Kitty lowered her knife and fork and sat back in her chair, her expression nervous. ‘There is no need to raise your voice, my dear. I bend to your will in all things. You know that, and I know that you think less of me for it. I am not such a fool as you sometimes think.’

‘Kitty, I never—’

‘Hush. I know you would never say it to my face. But I ask you, what kind of father places his children in a position of lesser safety for the sake of his country’s reputation?’

Arthur stared at her in silence for a moment before he responded flatly, ‘We do what we must for our country. All of us. It is as simple as that. It is the duty that comes with our rank, even for the youngest of us.’

Arthur and Charles arrived late in December, escorted by a maidservant and three footmen, one of whom turned out to be a government agent carrying a despatch for Arthur. After greeting his children he withdrew to his office to break open the seal and read the contents. Lord Liverpool had given much thought to the deteriorating situation in Paris and was anxious that Arthur be preserved from the dangers of assassins since his country may have need of his services as a general once again. Therefore Castlereagh was to be recalled from Vienna and Arthur would represent Britain’s interests in his place. Somerset would remain in Paris to run the embassy and Arthur was advised that Kitty and the children should also remain, to reassure King Louis that Arthur intended to return to Paris once the Congress had concluded its business.

Although the diplomatic situation was still grave there was some good news. A peace had been agreed between Britain and the United States. That, Arthur was reassured, would mean that the government’s attention could focus on Europe. It would also mean that more soldiers would be available for deployment in the army under Arthur’s command in the Netherlands.

Christmas passed peacefully and Arthur and Kitty did their best to entertain the two boys by showing them the sights of the French capital. Even as he tried his best to play the role of a dutiful father, Arthur’s mind was distracted by the burdens of wider affairs. He had urged the French King to order Talleyrand to co-operate with Castlereagh in Vienna, and early in the new year a secret treaty was signed, binding Britain, France and Austria in a pact against the other two powers if war broke out.

Arthur left Paris in the last week of January, travelling by carriage to Vienna where he arrived on the evening of 3 February. Despite the late hour he sought out Castlereagh at the fine mansion that had been allotted to the English representatives at the Congress. Castlereagh looked grey and exhausted when Arthur was shown into his study by a servant. The other man rose, smiled wearily and came across the room to take Arthur’s hand.

‘Good to see you again, Arthur. How was the journey?’

‘Long and wet.’

‘Loquacious as ever,’ Castlereagh chuckled. ‘Still, reticence will serve you well here in Vienna. Despite civilised appearances - there seems to be a ball, banquet or ballet happening almost every hour of the day - the place is a nest of vipers.’

‘So I gathered from your letters.’

‘Talleyrand and Metternich are the most devious scoundrels I have ever encountered, forever doing the rounds of private salons and offices proposing secret deals and selling confidences. Why, they have turned such practices into a virtual industry. I suppose I should be grateful at least that they happen to be “our” scoundrels. At least for the present.’

‘I take it that you have had to offer them disbursements to support our position?’ Arthur asked as he sat down. Castlereagh resumed his seat and nodded.

‘I probably did not need to have offered such inducements, but the situation is such that I was not prepared to take the risk. Now that we have the treaty signed and sealed, I hope that you will not have to pay them another penny.’ Castlereagh smiled faintly. ‘I know you have a pronounced distaste for bribes and back room chicanery.’

‘That is right,’ Arthur replied firmly. ‘I believe that men of honour can achieve more lasting good through being patient and observant than through politicking.’

‘Then you will be something of an oddity at the Congress.’ Castlereagh paused and looked at Arthur shrewdly. ‘Though I dare say such an approach might win much favour after the deviousness of recent months. Besides, your reputation goes before you. The Tsar considers you to be the greatest hero of the age, to the chagrin of his own generals, of course.’

‘Tsar Alexander is inclined to be generous in his praise,’ Arthur recalled from his meetings with the Tsar in London the previous summer.

‘Don’t be fooled, Arthur. Alexander is as absolute a ruler as Bonaparte ever was, and just as keen to expand his domains. He has managed to dupe the King of Prussia into supporting his claims and paid him off with the promise of a few sops from Poland as well as a free hand as far as the other German states are concerned. If that is permitted then there can be no question of a just equilibrium in Europe, and war will be inevitable. That is what you must prevent at any cost.’ Castlereagh paused briefly. ‘At least with the treaty, you will have a stick to beat them with if Alexander and Frederick William continue to push for more advantages in the final settlement.’

‘It is good to have the treaty,’ Arthur agreed. ‘But I shall use it only in the last resort.’

‘As you will,’ Castlereagh bowed his head slightly. ‘It would be most gratifying to see reason prevail, rather than veiled threats. I wish you the best of luck, Arthur. I shall be glad to quit this place.’

As Castlereagh had warned him, there were two distinct worlds at the Congress. With the gathering of so many rulers and statesmen and their entourages it was inevitable that grand social occasions should be given such prominence. In between such events the negotiations continued in the suite of rooms in the vast sprawl of the Schцnbrunn palace. The fires were continually built up by servants, and the delegates from the great powers discussed the terms of the European settlement in sweltering heat. The uncomfortable atmosphere was made more taxing still by the Tsar’s worsening hearing difficulties, which obliged the other delegates to strain their voices as they conversed in French, the common tongue of most of the royal courts on the Continent. Arthur’s refusal to enter into any secret meetings and his forthright discussion of the need to reach agreement and the dangers of not doing so quickly won him the respect of the other powers, and the Tsar began to give ground on his demands.

A month after he arrived, the morning dawned clear and crisp and Arthur rose early to dress for a hunt that was to take place in the vast park that stretched out across the landscape to the west of the palace. He breakfasted, and was waiting for his horse to be saddled and brought to the courtyard at the rear of the British delegation’s mansion when there was a sharp rap on the door of his private dining room. Arthur lowered his coffee and called out, ‘Come!’

The door opened and a tall, thin-faced man entered. He wore a thick coat, spattered with mud. It was unbuttoned and revealed the gold braid across the red jacket of a British army officer. He strode across the room, halted in front of the breakfast table and saluted. Arthur frowned.

‘Who the devil are you?’

‘Colonel Sir Neil Campbell, your grace.’

‘Campbell?’ Arthur repeated, then his eyes widened. ‘The resident in Elba?’

Campbell nodded anxiously. ‘Yes, your grace.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Your grace, I beg to report that Napoleon Bonaparte has escaped from Elba.’

‘Escaped? Where to?’

‘I know not. All I know is that when I returned to the island he was gone.’

‘You left the island?’ Arthur frowned. ‘In God’s name, why?’

‘I - I was invited to Florence for a ball, your grace.’ Campbell’s gaze faltered. ‘I was gone for a matter of days. Nothing seemed amiss when I left. When I returned, Bonaparte had vanished, together with his men. I made for Italy at once and sent a message to London, and now I have come to Vienna to inform the powers at the Congress.’

Arthur glared at the man. The monster of Europe was loose again, thanks to Campbell’s lack of diligence. ‘Stay here. I will question you more closely when I return.’

‘Yes, your grace.’

Arthur rose from his chair and strode towards the door. He walked quickly to find one of his aides waiting in the hall to join Arthur at the hunt. ‘You can send the horses back to the stable.’

‘Your grace?’

‘Another has bolted,’ Arthur responded. ‘Run to the other delegations. Tell them we must meet at the Schцnbrunn at once, on a matter of the gravest urgency. Run, man, as if the very devil himself were at your heels!’

‘Escaped?’ Metternich shook his head, and then laughed. The other delegates in the room joined in, though their laughter was more nervous than humorous, Arthur noted.

‘Where does he think to hide?’ the King of Prussia snorted. ‘He is the most notorious figure in Europe. Who would dare harbour him?’

‘I do not know where his ships were headed, your majesty,’ Arthur replied. ‘But I suspect that he would most likely make for Italy.’

‘Why Italy? Why not France?’

Talleyrand shook his head.‘He would be arrested, or assassinated, the moment he set foot on French soil. I agree, he will go to Italy. He has friends there, and family. Napoleon will go to Murat.’

‘Even though Murat betrayed him last year?’ Metternich queried.

‘I imagine he will ask his brother-in-law for asylum,’ Talleyrand suggested. ‘I know him, I know his strength of will. He is a hard man to refuse. Murat will take him in. Then, when the moment is ripe, Napoleon will seize power. The kingdom of Naples will be his new base of operations.’

It made some sense,Arthur reflected. Murat’s domains would provide him with an army large enough to threaten the rest of the Italian kingdoms.

The Tsar cleared his throat and leaned towards the conference table. ‘The question is, gentlemen, what shall we do about this?’

Talleyrand looked at him with a faintly surprised expression. ‘Do, your majesty? Why, we should organise an army to march on Napoleon and crush him, before he has time to prepare. That much is obvious. Meanwhile, the Congress must continue. The peace settlement is more important than the pursuit of a criminal, however notorious.’