Fire and Sword r-3

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Good.You’d better join them.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’The colonel nodded and Napoleon released his grip.

  The pass was a dreadful place under such conditions, and despite his layers of clothing and thick gloves Napoleon could feel his hands and feet beginning to grow numb. Leaving orders for some of his escort to stay behind and urge the rest of the army through the pass, Napoleon carried on, picking his way carefully down the far slope. He passed several more dead horses, and one dragoon who had been crushed when his horse had fallen on him. Already the snow had heaped up around the bodies and they would soon disappear beneath the mantle of white, there to remain until the spring thaw revealed their pitiful remains.

  It took the rest of the day and through the night for the army to negotiate the pass and stumble into the town of Villacastin on the far side of the Guadarrama range. But there was little chance to rest the exhausted soldiers. Reports reached Napoleon that General Moore had begun to retreat to the north. A deadly race was on.The British seemed to be making for the port of Corunna where, no doubt, their navy would be waiting to evacuate them. But if Soult was still in a position to block their retreat then General Moore and his men were trapped and would be crushed. Napoleon took warm satisfaction from this chance to humiliate his oldest enemy. Such a catastrophe would rock Britain to its foundations and they would never dare to attempt another campaign in Europe on such a scale again.

  So the Emperor drove his men on, often leading the pursuit at the head of a squadron of Guard cavalry as the army sped north.They began to pass the bodies of the first of the enemy’s stragglers, cut down by the pursuing French cavalry.Then came the wagons, lying abandoned at the side of the road. Napoleon rode through towns and villages which had been looted by the British as their discipline began to fail. Some of the redcoats had been so drunk or exhausted that they could not continue and simply sat in the streets waiting to be taken prisoner. But the British were not the only enemies facing the French.

  On the morning that Napoleon reached the town of Valderas, a mere two hours after the British rearguard had retreated from the town, they came across a small farm beside the road a short distance away.The farm was deserted, save for the bodies in front of the barn. Two French hussars had been staked, spreadeagled, on the ground. Their eyes had been gouged out and they had been mutilated and disembowelled. But they were the lucky ones, Napoleon reflected.Their officer, a lieutenant, had been nailed, upside down, to the door of the barn. Below him lay the smouldering remains of a small fire. His head and shoulders were burned black as pitch.

  ‘Bastards,’ someone muttered behind Napoleon.

  The captain of the squadron edged his mount forward and cleared his throat. ‘First six men, fall out and bury those bodies.’

  ‘No!’ Napoleon intervened. ‘Leave them.’

  ‘Sire?’ The captain turned to him with a surprised look. ‘Surely we can’t leave them there, for all our men to see?’

  ‘That’s precisely why we are leaving them there. Let everyone in the army know what awaits them if they stray from their comrades to loot, or straggle.’

  The captain thought about protesting, but then swallowed and nodded. ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Now let’s go.’ Napoleon spurred his horse on and the small column rode away, leaving the three bodies behind to serve as an example to the men who followed.

  That night, as Napoleon ate his supper at a small inn just outside Valderas, Berthier came and sat opposite him with the evening despatches.

  ‘I’m eating,’ Napoleon mumbled as he chewed on a hunk of bread and then dipped some more into the remains of the stew in front of him. ‘You read. Just the important items. Precis the rest.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’ Berthier had skim-read the messages and ordered them accordingly. He coughed and began.‘From Soult. He reports that he has skirmished with Moore’s cavalry, and managed to evade the main force by a march to the east.’

  ‘Evade?’ Napoleon lowered the piece of bread and swallowed as quickly as he could. ‘Evade? What the hell is Soult doing? I ordered him to hold his position, unless he had to manoeuvre in order to cut off the British line of retreat. If he goes east, Moore will escape. Why has he moved?’

  Berthier scanned the message and replied, ‘It seems that Soult is concerned that the survivors from La Romana’s Spanish army is closing on him from the north-east. He did not want to get caught in a trap himself.’

  ‘Pah! La Romana’s army is little more than a band of brigands. Soult has nothing to fear from them.’ Napoleon paused and projected a map of the area in his mind, together with the forces he had set in motion against the British.With Soult to the east the chance to trap Moore was gone. All that was left was the hope of overhauling the British army and forcing it to turn and fight. Napoleon ground his teeth in frustration at his subordinate’s action and roughly pushed away the nearly empty bowl of stew. ‘Have orders sent to every division. Tell them that the Emperor demands one last effort of them. They have but to catch General Moore and they will have brought Britain to her knees.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Now that Moore has escaped our trap we no longer need so many troops to continue the pursuit. Soult can deal with it. Reinforce him with Junot’s men and the rest can return to Madrid. I’ll follow Soult with the Imperial Guard as a reserve for the present.’

  Berthier nodded.

  ‘Next message.’

  Berthier pulled out the next sheet. ‘From your brother Lucien, sire.’

  ‘Read it.’

  ‘ “Your imperial majesty, I write to you briefly to apprise you of certain unexpected developments in Paris which may well be innocent expression of the idiosyncracies of the characters in question, or a symptom of something more sinister.You well know the antipathy that has existed between Fouché and Talleyrand for many years . . .” ’

  Napoleon could not help smiling. It was an antipathy he had done much to cultivate in order to ensure that these two key ministers were kept divided.

  ‘ “. . . I write to tell you that I encountered the pair recently at the salon of the Hotel Monaco, arm in arm and talking in a most animated and friendly manner. Startling though such a sight was to me, I did not think anything sinister of it until Talleyrand began to be far more vocal about his opposition to his majesty’s policies in Spain. Out of concern for the safety of your affairs in Paris I have taken the liberty of having my agents follow Fouché and Talleyrand and compile reports on whom they meet. I will report to you in more detail as soon as the picture is clearer.Your brother, Lucien.” ’

  As Berthier lowered the letter Napoleon’s mind was rapidly considering the significance of what he had heard. Fouché and Talleyrand arm in arm? Unthinkable. Barely a few months ago they would only have been prepared to walk so close to each other if their hands were round the other man’s throat. This rapprochement was indeed unexpected, and suspicious. Napoleon did not like it at all. He chewed his lip for a moment before his gaze turned towards Berthier.‘I will ride to Valladolid. If Moore manages to break away from Soult then have the Imperial Guard march and join me.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’ Berthier made some notes and then looked at his master anxiously. ‘Do you believe that Fouché and Talleyrand can be plotting against you, sire?’

  ‘Plotting against me? Of course. I expect that. Plotting together against me is an altogether different issue. I don’t like it.’

  The next morning Napoleon, escorted by a complete regiment of hussars, the very least complement that could guarantee his safety, set off for Valladolid. On arriving in the city Napoleon sent word to Lucien that he would be returning to Paris as soon as possible. A second letter was sent to Josephine, relating to her the pursuit of the British, his certainty that they would be caught and defeated, and his desire to be back in her arms again. Despite the cooling of his passion some months earlier, Napoleon still had considerable affection for his wife. Enough to fire his desire to make love to her again. Once the letters w
ere sent, Napoleon and Berthier settled to several days of planning for the continuation of the campaign in the Peninsula.

  A week after he reached Valladolid the Emperor received a message from the Director General of the Post in Paris.A letter from Fouché and Talleyrand to Prince Murat had been intercepted. In it the ministers spoke of the widespread desire for peace that had taken hold of France, and wondered, if Napoleon perished in Spain, whether Murat would consider ascending the imperial throne.

  When Napoleon read the message he knew at once that he must return to Paris immediately. There was no question of it now. A conspiracy was hatching, at the very time when Austria was building her army in preparation for war.

  Chapter 53

  Arthur

  Dublin, January 1809

  Even when the news reached Ireland that the senior officer of the British army, the Duke of York, had signed the report on the Cintra treaty, Arthur did not feel remotely like celebrating. He had come out of the affair somewhat better than either Burrard or Dalrymple. Those senior officers in the know at Horse Guards would ensure that the two generals were steered away from further field commands. Arthur had proved his ability to command at Vimeiro, and his services would be required again one day. He just hoped that the day would not be too long in coming. However high his stock with senior officers, he knew that his chief difficulty was that politicians have enduring memories, and it was likely that his enemies would protest if he was given a new command too soon.

  Such a delay was a depressing prospect. Partly because he felt the injured pride of the wrongly accused, but mostly because he was honest enough to admit to himself that he was one of the most capable generals in the army. By rights his talents should be utilised in frustrating the enemy. Instead, it was he who was frustrated, and he regarded those who controlled Britain’s political affairs with steadily growing cynicism.

  Kitty and the two boys bore the brunt of his ill humour, which tended to manifest itself in a brooding silence and coldness to those closest to him. At first Kitty tried treating him with a forced cheerfulness and insistence on the most trivial of conversations in the hope that it might lift his spirits. But the harder she tried the more terse he seemed to become, and in the end she fell to matching his silences with her own.The long winter evenings of the first months of the year crept by under a cloud of mutual frustration and neglect.

  Arthur’s mood was not helped by the steady flow of bad news from London. The evacuation of the British army from Corunna and the death of General Moore had struck at the very core of the nation’s morale. Then came word of a scandal involving the Duke of York. A former mistress of the Duke, Mary Anne Clarke, had revealed that she had been trading her sexual favours for army commissions and promotions, which she had sold on at a tidy profit.

  ‘Rubbish!’ Arthur growled as he tossed the newspaper down on the dining table. Night had fallen and he had been reading about the scandal after the dessert had been cleared away.

  Kitty looked up from her coffee, licked her lips and asked, ‘What is rubbish, my dear?’

  ‘The allegations made by the Clarke woman, of course. Damn lies, all of it!’

  Kitty had read the newspaper before Arthur had returned from his office at the castle. She took another sip of coffee before responding in a measured tone, ‘It seems to me that her claims have some truth to them, and others corroborate what she says.’

  Arthur frowned.‘I accept that she was selling offices on, but I cannot believe that the Duke of York can have been aware of it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not?’ Arthur asked in an astonished tone. ‘He is the highest-ranking army officer in the country.A royal.Why would he take the risk of exposing himself to such a scandal? It makes no sense.’

  Kitty shrugged. ‘He would not be the first man in high office to fall from grace because of a woman.The Duke should have known better.’

  ‘But that is my point. She must have been selling the offices behind his back. Otherwise he would have known about it and dropped her at once.’

  ‘Yes, that would make sense.’

  ‘He is an honourable man,’ Arthur insisted. ‘I cannot believe he would be involved in such corruption.’

  ‘Yet you accept that the Clarke woman was his mistress.’ Kitty looked down into her coffee.‘It seems to me that if the Duke is capable of taking a mistress, who is to say that his immorality does not extend further?’

  ‘Taking a mistress is one thing, Kitty. Taking liberties with one’s office is quite another.’

  ‘Both are immoral,’ she replied. ‘It is not what good people do.’

  Arthur shook his head. ‘Half the men in Parliament have mistresses. It is hardly uncommon. Yet they balance their physical needs with integrity in public office.’

  ‘Really? And what about you, Arthur?’

  He glared at her, lips pressed tightly together. In the bleak months since his return from Portugal he had visited a discreet club called the Game of Hearts on several occasions, and been entertained by Harriette Wilson. She had been good in bed, but he rather feared that his would be another name she bandied about in due course. He hoped that Kitty would not find out, and be hurt, yet at the same time he could not help wanting something more diverting than the stilted sex available at home. He was silent for a moment, and then said, ‘My conscience is clear, and I’ll thank you not to ask me that again.’

  Kitty set her cup down with a sharp rap and folded her hands together. ‘I ask it because of the way you are presently treating me, Arthur. I am your wife, yet you hardly ever speak to me. Never take any interest in me or my opinions. Lately, you have barely even acknowledged your children. Under such circumstances can you wonder if I should fear that you are seeking affection elsewhere?’

  He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.‘I will not discuss such accusations, Kitty, do you hear? And you are quite wrong about the Duke of York, as you shall see.’

  Without another look at her, he left the room and retired to his private study. Pouring himself a large glass of port, he dropped into his chair and stared at the small pile of official papers and letters he had brought home with him from the castle. Almost all the latter were fresh requests for patronage, some specifically requesting positions that entailed few actual duties so that the incumbent could be assured of an income without the inconvenience of having to work for it. Arthur scowled at the papers for a moment and then took a hefty swig. The country was at war, and while every resource should be dedicated to providing the means to secure victory over France it seemed that many of his countrymen still placed selfishness above service to the nation. The situation was even worse in Parliament, where political factions spent their energies scoring points over each other, regardless of the wider peril that threatened to engulf Britain.

  And now this business with the Duke of York. Arthur shook his head.Whatever the Duke might have done, he had a first rate talent for administration and making sure that his country fielded the best trained and equipped army in Europe. If the scandal that embroiled him was not quashed, Britain might very well end up deprived of his services. Simply because Mary Anne Clarke had decided to take her revenge on him for ending their affair. No doubt she was also being rewarded for her accusations by some Whig politician. At present the Whigs were spoiling for peace with France. Peace at almost any price.

  It was madness, Arthur reflected. Bonaparte did not strike him as the kind of man who placed a premium on peace.The French Emperor was a soldier through and through and the conquest of nations and the subjugation of people had become his obsession. But then, Arthur wondered, did he himself not share something of that taste for war? He never felt so complete as when he commanded men on campaign. Gone were the duplicities of politics, the pretensions of London society and the endless ennui of domestic compromises that had come to define his life with Kitty.

  As soon as the last thought entered his head the bitter taste of shame and betrayal soured his soul and he d
espised himself. He finished his port and set the glass down sharply on the table. His country needed him in the war against Bonaparte. He must embrace his true calling and return to the army.The longer he stayed in his present post, and partook of the slow poison of politics, the less chance he would have of serving his country in uniform. Now that the Cintra inquiry had cleared him, he must seek a new appointment in the army as swiftly as possible.

  The next morning, Arthur strode purposefully to his office. Cancelling his morning appointments, he settled down in front of a sheet of paper and began to draft a letter to Castlereagh.

  My lord, it appears to me that the war with France is swiftly approaching the point where the term crisis might be employed. The present scandal afflicting his grace, the Duke of York, and the recent ejection of our army from Spain, have caused public support for the continuation of the conflict to wither. Unless his majesty’s government is resolved to continue direct confrontation of enemy land forces we cannot expect the nation to endure a state of war for much longer.Therefore, we must take it upon ourselves to overcome the French army in the field and prove, again and again, that the French can be beaten. Every victory we gain will sound through the rest of Europe like a rallying cry.