Four Days in June

by Iain Gale

  ‘Of course. Dinner. Where?’

  ‘A house, not a hundred metres away. In the Rue St Roch. The only place still occupied – with food and a fire. We could walk there.’

  ‘Fine.’

  The little house looked out of place amidst the debris and chaos of war. A fairy-tale house – smoke at the chimney and flowers around the door, which was open. Ney entered and found inside a family, neatly turned-out and drawn up, almost as if for inspection. He felt faintly embarrassed. Smiled. Heymes spoke.

  ‘His name is Dumont, sir. He’s a clerk in the town. His wife. Their children.’

  The couple looked terrified. The children less so. Four boys, thought Ney. A curious coincidence. He looked for a moment. The woman was pretty in a charming, petit-bourgeois way. Not like his own Aglaé. Her husband looked sound, if somewhat round shouldered, with an air of indignant confidence. He was no soldier, though.

  The boys were roughly the same ages as his own. Good-looking too. He compared them – Napoleon, twelve, Louis, eleven, Eugene, now seven, and young Henri, just three. He thought of them all at Coudreaux, where even now Aglaé was perhaps helping their cook with the supper. The vision led him into foolish thoughts of their life together and everything with which they had been blessed over the last thirteen years.

  They had met through the Empress Josephine, who, much taken with Ney, had begun to matchmake immediately for her young friend, pretty Aglaé Auguié, whose father had been one of Louis XVI’s finance ministers, and whose mother, in that vanished other-world, was lady in waiting to Marie-Antoinette. As a child she had survived the Terror and her mother’s suicide, precipitated by the execution of the Queen. Ney loved her for it. For her bravery. But more than this he loved her for her beauty – physical and spiritual. He touched his breast pocket, felt inside the shape of the miniature of her portrait by Gerard – the companion to his own.

  He thought of their Paris house at the height of the Empire. Of his apartments overlooking the Seine. Of rooms crammed with mirrors, Aubusson tapestries and crystal chandeliers. Of the paintings – he had a particular taste for seventeenth-century Flemish art. Of his library, with its volumes of Racine, Rousseau and above all military theorists. Of their lavish candlelit receptions, thronged with painters, musicians, writers – Gros, David, Girodet, Gerard, Spontini, Gretry, Stendhal, Madame de Stäel.

  He found that he had been gazing blankly at a crucifix on the wall and turned again towards Dumont’s four boys. Wondered when again he might give his two youngest piggybacks around their farmyard. Thought of their future together. All the pleasures that lay in store. Of taking them fishing; hunting wild boar; helping with the harvest. Then, becoming suddenly and unpleasantly aware of his own mortality, of the possibility of there being no future, he cast the vision from his mind. Smiled. Waved his hand towards the uncertain Belgian children.

  ‘Please, please. Do not be afraid. Thank you for your hospitality. Please just behave as you would normally. Pretend we are not here. Ignore us.’

  Absurd, of course.

  Food arrived. Bread, cheese, bacon, wine, brought in by the lady of the house. The srvants had fled. Ney gave her a smile. 0Rollin entered.

  ‘The Nassauers, sir. We believe them to be part of Wellington’s 2nd Division; Perponcher’s men. The Prince of Saxe-Weimar’s brigade. They might be part of a force as strong as 8,000. But I have to say that we believe it probable that they have now rejoined the main army.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly. Thank you. Join us?’

  Local wine. Thin and lacking substance. What he would give for a good glass of Calvados. Noticing a flute hanging on the wall, he turned to his nervous host.

  ‘You play?’

  ‘A little, sir. When I have the time.’

  ‘I too. When I have the time.’

  He laughed and thought again of home. Of Aglaé at the piano and of himself struggling with the flute. He thought of her sweet voice. Her taste for Italian arias. Don Giovanni. That divine duet – ‘La ciderem lamano’. He began to hum the melody.

  Dumont’s house, he thought, was the epitome of petit-bourgeois – safe, dependable. And now, as Ney relaxed into a reverie, it took him back further to another, similar household, many years before. To a cosy parlour in the Saar where a father, a barrel-cooper by trade, would speak in German and French of the virtues of France, the glory of battle. How he had been proud to fight for King Louis against the Prussians. An image came to him of a small boy, ruddy-faced and with bright blue eyes, who, having listened spellbound to tales of war, had pursued his dreams of glory into the Song of Roland, the tales of Charlemagne, his knights, another empire. An image of a hot-headed boy of eighteen who had gone against his father’s wishes and joined the army. The army of France in whose ranks his German accent had quickly disappeared and in whose service, in the uniform of a hussar, a quarter of a century ago, he had first ridden to glory. So long ago.

  Mozart’s aria was going around and around in his head. So too was an unpleasant thought which had come to him as he ate. Why should the Nassauers have rejoined the main force? What if they were still there at the crossroads? What if the cavalry reports were muddled? It happened. Might they not mean that the enemy had left not Quatre-Bras – which he saw now was the key to the road, and the flank – but merely Frasnes? Looking out of the open window Ney saw that, although night had fallen, the street was still well illuminated by the cold light of a full moon. He stood up.

  ‘Heymes, my horse. We will ride to Quatre-Bras. I cannot rest until I see for myself our precise position.’

  ‘Sir, it’s dark. Surely?’

  ‘The moon will suffice. Monsieur Dumont, thank you for your hospitality. I believe that a bed has been arranged for me here? You are very kind. Madame.’ Giving a quick bow he left the house.

  Outside, with Heymes and the two aides, Ney mounted his waiting horse. With a small escort, found grudgingly by a half-troop of the First Chasseurs, they rode in silence the few kilometres to the crossroads. At Frasnes Ney caught the familiar stench of a recent battle – putrefaction and powder-smoke. Trotting along the street they passed occasional groups of Garde cavalry – chasseurs and lancers – some snatching what sleep they could, others eating, drinking, talking. The marshal and his party went unremarked.

  It was ten o’clock when they reached the French advance lines, to be greeted by a single sentry and a somewhat startled Lieutenant of Lancers. Quickly the little group dismounted and walked towards the front. Through the darkness, across the fields, Ney could see the fires of the enemy pickets. He counted them. Swore quietly. No. The Nassauers had not left. Were still here. Encamped in fact, it seemed, in some force. To his left Ney could see the bulk of a large wood and in the centre and on the right the dim shapes of three sizeable complexes of farm buildings. The crossroads itself lay straight ahead. It looked, as he had supposed it might, ominously like a highly defensible position. He began to run through the dispositions of his troops.

  ‘Rollin, where is Bachelu’s division?’

  ‘Two kilometres to the east, at Mellet, sir.’

  ‘And Prince Jerome?’

  ‘Ransart, sir.’

  ‘And Piré’s cavalry?’

  Another aide: ‘At Heppignies, sir.’

  ‘Count d’Erlon’s corps?’

  ‘His headquarters have been established at Jumet, sir.’ Rollin again. ‘But half of his divisions are strung out along the route, one at Marchienne, another at Thuin. Jacquinot’s cavalry we believe to be somewhere near Binche.’

  Ney sighed. ‘And Reille?’

  No one was entirely sure where the rest of Reille’s corps was. Ney swore again. Audibly now. He realized that he could not after all afford to rest. He would himself ride at once to Charleroi. Must attempt to glean more precise directions from the Emperor. Must be allowed to know more detail of his plans. His mind was addled, confused. The ride there and back would clear his head. Without a word, he walked back to his horse and remounted.
r />   ‘You have the time, Heymes?’

  ‘10.30, sir.’

  It would be close to midnight before he reached Charleroi. It was going to be a long night.

  FOUR

  Brussels, 1.30 a.m. De Lancey

  De Lancey sat at the unfamiliar bureau of his borrowed office in the house near the Parc and rubbed at his face and eyes. It had been a frantic evening. Unpleasantly warm for the time of year. At around nine o’clock a message had arrived from Blücher telling Wellington that he was now en route to Sombreffe and preparing to face Bonaparte there. Another came an hour later, from General Dörnberg, commander of the Hanoverian cavalry and senior intelligence officer at Mons. Still nothing though from Grant. Dörnberg reported that there were no enemy directly before him. In his opinion the entire French army was now focused on Charleroi. But surely, thought De Lancey, this was old news? The French might by now be long past Charleroi. In effect they were, all of them, chasing shadows.

  Wellington, however, had at last seemed sure that he knew what Napoleon intended. Shortly after ten he had sent for De Lancey and given his ‘after orders’ – a common practice. De Lancey had found the Peer in blue velvet carpet slippers, a silk dressing-gown over his shirt, preparing for the ball already in progress in the Rue de la Blanchisserie. The Richmonds had taken a house in the Rue des Cindres and in this small street to the rear the Duchess had found the perfect venue for their dance – the workshops of a coach-builder. That afternoon the old carriage works had been cleaned by a fatigue party of defaulters and decked out with all the frivolity of an English village fête. Reports of the spectacle had been coming to De Lancey for the past two hours as his officers, beginning to return from their various dispatch rides, had managed brief sorties to the gilded assembly. No sooner had they gone though than he had been compelled to summon them back to deliver these fresh orders personally.

  The ‘after orders’ were clear enough: The 3rd Division would continue from Braine-le-Comte to Nivelles. The 1st Division, the Guards, was to move at once from Enghien to Braine-le-Comte. The 2nd and 4th Divisions were to move to Enghien, as was the cavalry.

  De Lancey detected a general sense of urgency, but realized that the Peer remained convinced that the real French threat was to his right wing. He was pondering the probability of this when, quite unannounced, out of breath and without knocking, Will Cameron burst into the room.

  ‘What the deuce? Will?’

  ‘Sir. More intelligence. I come directly from the ball. From Lord Wellington himself. The French have taken Charleroi, sir. Even now are marching on Brussels. Their pickets have been at Quatre-Bras. The message was timed at 10.30, sir. It comes direct from General Rebecque. The Peer has left the dancing, sir. We are to order a general state of readiness.’

  ‘What news from Grant?’

  ‘None, sir. Only this from Rebecque. And direct from the front. The ball is finished, sir. Officers are to return to their units. We are to prepare to advance.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Will. If the Peer has not yet received news from Colonel Grant, he will not order a general advance.’

  ‘No, sir. Yes. I mean. Quite.’

  ‘We will merely proceed with the after orders that he has already issued – a concentration upon Nivelles. Unless he gave you to understand otherwise?’

  ‘No, sir. That is indeed his intention.’

  ‘Well then, I suggest that you find yourself somewhere to catch a few hours’ sleep. You will certainly be needing them in the coming days. Take one of our rooms. Goodnight, Will.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  After Cameron had left, De Lancey looked again at the map – the old, inaccurate 1790s survey of the area by Ferraris and Capitaine – spread out on the table in the centre of the room. It was still just possible. A feint. He understood Wellington’s caution. What if he was right and Napoleon had called his bluff? Intended to divert the Anglo-Allied army to the east and then turn its flank? He walked towards the door, intending to find Magdalene and possibly a few hours’ rest. As he went to turn the handle, however, the door flew open and he came face to face with General Dö rnberg, behind him an aide. Both of them hatless, dripping in sweat, reeking of horses and brandy. The general was in a state of some distress.

  ‘My God, De Lancey. I have come from Mons. Oh God, De Lancey. What have I done? How could I have been so foolish? We must go at once to Wellington.’

  In the entrance hall of the house on Rue Royale most of the evening’s candles had already been extinguished. In the half-light they were greeted by Wellington’s secretary, Fitzroy Somerset, still fully dressed. De Lancey spoke quietly.

  ‘Somerset, we must see his Grace. Immediately. We have grave news.’

  Without a word, Somerset hurried them along the dark corridor and up a long flight of steps to the Duke’s bedroom. Entering before them, a few seconds later he showed them both in. Wellington was sitting straight up in bed. He fixed De Lancey with a hard stare.

  ‘Well then, gentlemen, what is it?’

  Dö rnberg spoke. ‘Your Grace, I am afraid that I have been terribly amiss. I am aware that throughout the day you have sent me constant reminders that, should I hear from Colonel Grant or his agents, I should waste no time in at once letting you know. I am afraid, sir, that I have not done so and have only now realized my grave error.’

  Wellington said nothing. Dö rnberg continued: ‘It is now clear to me, sir, that yesterday, at about midday, a report which I assumed had simply come to me from a commonplace French Royalist agent was in fact from an agent of Colonel Grant himself. In consequence, sir, I sent you an edited version. I see now from his agent’s description of the dispositions of Bonaparte’s troops that they were without doubt heading directly for Charleroi. For the chaussée running between ourselves and the Prussians – the highway into Brussels.’

  Dörnberg stared awkwardly at the floor. Wellington took in a deep breath. Said nothing to Dörnberg but turned to De Lancey.

  ‘Quatre-Bras, De Lancey. You will order the entire army to collect on Quatre-Bras.’

  My God, thought De Lancey. You have been caught out. D’Alava was right. Bonaparte has fooled you and even now is closing with the Prussians while we are too extended to offer any immediate help.

  They left Wellington to sleep, Dö rnberg calmer now. Chastened, reprimanded, conscience salved. They rode back to De Lancey’s house, and for the first time since he had arrived in Brussels the Quartermaster General began to worry.

  Outside the De Lancey house Dörnberg bade goodnight and rode off to alert his officers. The lights were still lit and Magdalene and the staff all quite awake. For, although the dawn was not yet risen, in the past hour all Brussels had come to life. She met him in the doorway.

  ‘Oh, William, you must come and look. It is so exciting. So glorious.’

  Taking him by the hand, like an eager child on Christmas morning, she led him up the great staircase, into the drawing room and out through the open window on to the balcony.

  All across the city drums beat an insistent and cacophanous stand to. Bugles called. Looking into the street he saw soldiers of all ranks, all regiments, spilling out of their billets, some with their erstwhile hosts, a few carrying children high on their shoulders. All was a clatter of soldiers, officers, horses, gun carriages, wagons.

  The sky, catching the first rays of dawn, bathed the marching figures in a strange pale light, giving them an unearthly pallor. The morning was a cool and refreshing contrast to the stifling humidity of the previous day and, his tasks finished for the time being, the army about its business, De Lancey too felt refreshed and allowed himself a moment of relaxation as the couple watched in awe as the spectacle unfolded before them.

  At first it seemed very solemn. Picton’s division, Kempt’s brigade first, the regiments marching past in column of threes. He saw the 32nd, the men looking exhausted rather than jubilant. No drums played, merely the fifes whistling the plaintive tones of an old march, ‘Guilderoy’. A
sudden fear welled inside him. Not for himself, but for Magdalene. She would go to Antwerp. Certainly. But he realized now that he was leaving her as he had promised he never would.

  Then the mood changed, and momentarily his fear passed. Another regiment, the 28th, appeared in swaggering style, their band playing ‘The Downfall of Paris’, the old Revolutionary air, the ‘Ça Ira’, the tune that the British had stolen from the French and renamed, the tune which had marked the redcoats’ progress to victory through Spain and into France. And after them came a regiment of Highlanders, swinging down the street, heading for the Charleroi road. By their kilts and the deep green of their facings and their regimental colour, De Lancey recognized them as the 79th, the Camerons.

  ‘There, Magdalene. Look. Your countrymen.’

  ‘Oh, William. How bold they look. How very fierce.’

  As they passed below the little wrought-iron balcony their pipers struck up the regimental march, and she gave a little jump. And then a huge smile. Tears began to run from her eyes. She looked at him. Pulled him down towards her. Held him as tight as her pale, thin arms could manage. Gently, De Lancey placed his own arm about her waist and ran his hand up her back.

  After the Highlanders came the Rifles. Unusually towards the rear of the column. Not for long, he thought. ‘First in, last out’ their motto. Even as he looked, their pace began to quicken. Once on the open road they would open up to double time – light infantry pace. No band for them. Instead they were singing, ‘The girl I left behind me’.

  And with it his fear returned. Magdalene alone. Without him. Perhaps forever.

  ‘Oh, William, I shall never forget this moment.’ She pressed closer to him. Turned again towards the endless column of marching men.

  De Lancey followed her gaze and lost himself in the spectacle. Soon. It would be soon now. He felt the thrill rise within him. Soon they would find Bonaparte. And then a battle. Silently, he watched the men file past and prepared to say goodbye.