Flashman's Waterloo (Adventures of Thomas Flashman Book 6)

by Robert Brightwell

  I’ll say this for the man; he had nerves of steel, for he did not even flinch as the blade lunged towards him. Marshal Ney must have realised that I did not have the reach to touch him and he just stared impassively down at me, while surprise, shock and recognition chased each other across my face.

  “Marshal, I am sorry,” I stammered, only just remembering to speak in French. I started to straighten up. “I thought it was an ambush… Oh...” For only then did I notice the cocked pistol pointing at me from the marshal’s rock steady hand.

  Ney ignored my protestations and called out over my shoulder, “Are there more of them?”

  “No sir,” came a voice from where the twigs had been broken. “He has come alone.”

  Ney gave a grunt of acknowledgement and then turned his attention back to me. “Colonel, unless you plan to use that blade of yours, I suggest you put it away.”

  I did as he suggested; I was not going to use the weapon against two men who would both be well armed. I was not sure what was happening and fear still prickled up my spine, but I thought some righteous indignation was well overdue. “With respect, sir, what the devil is going on? I came here at your invitation to join your staff, not to be held at gunpoint.”

  “I always find it prudent to deal cautiously with Clarke’s creatures, especially when nobody seems to know them. You are Clarke’s creature, are you not?”

  “He appointed me to this posting, yes,” I admitted before launching into my carefully planned cover story. “But I have spent most of my career in Spain. I fought at Talavera, Busaco and Albuera, where I was badly wounded.” Which was all true as far as it went. I could even describe the battles if he had pressed me.

  But Ney simply nodded as though accepting my statement as true. His pistol though had not moved an inch since I had first seen him. “But now you plan to spy on me for Clarke and report to him who I see and what I say?”

  He obviously knew Clarke well and would not believe that I had been appointed without some ulterior motive. I racked my brains for some explanation that would serve. If Ney hated Clarke as much as I did, he was likely to shoot his agent out of hand. The best lies are always those closest to the truth. Looking at Ney standing all proud and erect, with a glare of grim determination in his eye, I realised exactly how I could gammon him. “No sir, I plan to spy on you for the British, for Wellington himself.”

  “What?” For the first time his pistol wavered in his grip and I knew my suspicion was right. Show me any successful general and while they want respect from fellow commanders on their own side, they yearn even more for recognition of their achievements from enemy leaders they respect. I knew for example that Wellington burned with an inner frustration every time someone mentioned the fact that while he had beaten half a dozen French marshals he had never faced Bonaparte. I had guessed that a French marshal would, in turn, be gratified to have the respect of the great British general.

  “Wellington has heard how you earned your title of the bravest of the brave and he knows you command great respect with the French soldiery.” I larded on the compliments before I continued. “He wants to know what you think about the Duc d’Orleans, but as the British formally support King Louis, he could not simply ask you. Clarke offered to find out and that is why he put me on your staff.”

  Ney nodded slowly as he considered this. I could tell he was pleased, though; his chest appeared to puff up another inch as he slowly un-cocked the pistol and dropped it into his pocket. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Ney’s companion, another army officer, emerging from the trees behind me and walk towards us. He had a short-barrelled carbine musket held easily in one hand.

  “Sir,” I urged. “If we could talk privately it would be better for your reputation and my own.”

  “De Briqueville,” called Ney. “Collect our horses and that of Colonel Moreau. I wish to talk to the colonel alone.” He turned and started to walk up the main path through the park and I fell in step beside him. “Do you report personally to Wellington as well as Clarke?”

  “Yes sir. My wife has some English family, which is the reason Wellington trusts me.”

  Ney grunted his acknowledgement and continued walking while he considered his response. We must have gone at least twenty paces before we spoke again. “I don’t care what you tell Clarke, but tell Wellington this: Marshal Ney will do whatever is in the best interests of France. And when Ney decides he can no longer serve someone he will look that person in the eye to tell him. I was the one who told the emperor that there was no choice but for him to abdicate. If necessary I will look the king in the eye and tell him the same.” He stopped and turned to me. “And tell them that Marshal Ney does not involve himself in plots and intrigues.”

  “I will, sir,” I replied as we resumed walking. While his answer sounded emphatic, I realised that it still did not tell me whether he positively supported the king’s claim to the throne or if he was just waiting for events to unfold. I decided to try a different tack. “You said you will do what is right for France, but from what I have heard, the royalists are worried about your loyalty. Could you do something to reassure them?” I had thought that this was a cunning move on my part. If I could persuade the most influential soldier in the French army to speak up in support for the monarch the British government backed, then surely this would take some of the wind from the Orleanist sails. But before I could imagine the rewards I might receive for this diplomatic coup, Ney gave a snort of derision.

  “I have sworn an oath of allegiance, what more do they want?”

  “Perhaps a public show of support while attending court?”

  Ney turned to me, his eyes blazing with sudden anger. “Those arrogant courtiers might fear me because they know I command the respect of the soldiers, but they do not understand what the name Ney stands for. They sneer at us behind our backs. Do you have any idea how many times my wife has come home from the court in tears? That bitch Angoulême refuses to recognise any titles given by the emperor and many others follow suit. She refers to my wife as Madame Ney instead of the Princess of Moscow or Duchess of Elchingen. If she had a longer memory she might remember that my wife’s mother protected her mother, the old queen, from the mob during the Revolution.”

  “How did she do that?” I asked, curious.

  “She was a waiting woman to the old queen and fiercely loyal. When they stormed Versailles she stood on a balcony blocking their way and buying the family time to make their escape. Later, after the old queen was guillotined, my mother in law lost her wits and killed herself jumping from a window. Now her daughter faces scorn from that same queen’s family.” His voice was calmer as he added, “My wife has always had some sympathy with the royal house, which makes their rejection of her all the more hurtful. As for me, I will support them because I want peace for France.” We walked in silence for a while after that; Ney was gazing at the ground ahead and appeared lost in thought. I did not want to interrupt him. From what he had told me, it was clear that he would not support the Orleanists and that was valuable information which Wellington would want to know. Abruptly he looked up again and asked, “Were you on the hill at Busaco? That was a bloody business.”

  “I was,” I confirmed. But I did not think it would be politic to mention that I was reluctantly leading a charge of Connaught Rangers down the slope, rather than being part of a French column marching up it.

  “It was folly to attack where we did. If Massena had spent as much time on his horse as he did on his mistress, we would have beaten the British then once and for all.”

  I remembered the tales about Massena’s mistress from my time riding in disguise with the French. She was no stranger to costume either, as during the rare times Massena was on horseback she used to go with him in the uniform of a hussar. To show that I had actually been there, I thought I would repeat some of the gossip I had heard from the soldiers. “Was the girl very pretty? I heard tales that you had to give reports of the British positions through their bed
room door.”

  Ney barked with laughter. “Yes I did once and I think she nearly killed him. But being fucked to death is not a bad way to go, eh.” He slapped me on the back and I was reminded that while he might be a prince and a duke now, he had started out as a common cavalry trooper. “Spain was a tough business; we should have left it alone.”

  “But not as tough as Russia?” I prompted.

  “No Russia was worse.” He stared into the middle distance then, his mind clearly casting itself back to that unspeakable horror. Then in almost a whisper he added, “I took a division of thirty-five thousand men into Russia. I had two hundred men left at the end, but their balls were attached with wire.”

  I had thought that the suffering I had seen the French endure at Torres Vedras was bad but I could not imagine surviving the retreat in Russia. From what I had heard Ney had been wherever the fighting was toughest. Often when everyone else had despaired, he was the one who had rallied the men and got them going again. It was easy to respect a general like Ney and I was suddenly glad that the war was over.

  We reached a crossroads in the paths and Ney looked over his shoulder to see that de Briqueville was bringing the horses. “Well, Colonel, tell Wellington what I told you and I wish you well.”

  “But I am supposed to stay on your staff.” I had realised as we were talking that being on Ney’s staff would probably be the safest place for me. He knew a little of my real mission and I thought would keep this knowledge to himself as he was not involved with the plotters. On top of that, anyone would think twice about harming one of his men and incurring his wrath.

  Ney laughed, “Well you can if you wish, not that it will do you much good. Tomorrow I leave for my country estate at Coudreaux and I don’t plan to come back to Paris until the spring.” De Briqueville had ridden up and passed me the reins to my horse while staring at me curiously. Ney swung lightly up into his saddle and called over his shoulder, “Don’t forget what I told you,” before spurring his horse off down the path.

  Chapter 8

  That meeting with Ney was in October 1814 and I will spare you the detail of the next four months, as in truth not a lot happened. In fact it was one of the softest billets I have ever had serving my country – which lulled me into a completely false sense of security and left me woefully unprepared for the horrors to come.

  Wellington was delighted with my news from the marshal. He felt sure that the Orleanists would not move without Ney’s approval. So I was to remain on his staff and keep my eyes open for any attempts to contact him as well as for any other gossip among officers in the War Ministry. So there I was, free to enjoy the delights of Paris and with very little to do. At the end of each day I retired to one of the best hotels in the capital, a warm bed and a willing wife. We spent a few weeks away from the city on jaunts to explore other places, with me officially following up leads that came to nothing. The weather was cold that winter and I would dress up warmly in civilian clothes with my hat well down and even if I had met someone who knew me as Colonel Moreau, they would have been hard pressed to recognise me. So we did all the tourist things, often with young Thomas along, and I was forced to agree that the diplomatic life might be for me after all.

  When I was in uniform I found that being able to say that I was on Marshal Ney’s staff instantly earned me respect and access to anywhere I wanted to go. De Briqueville was cautious of me at first. He was the one that had asked around about me for Ney and not surprisingly had found no one who had heard of me. But his marshal had accepted me onto the staff and that was good enough for him. He was fiercely loyal to our mutual commander and one evening he told me why.

  He had been an officer of Ney’s on the retreat from Moscow when the five thousand men of the rear-guard had been cut off from the main force by a Russian army of eighty thousand. They had all thought that they were lost, but after a diversionary attack, Ney set off in the last direction anyone expected: back to Moscow. They only went a few miles but in a snowstorm they evaded Russian cavalry who were searching for them on other roads. Then Ney led them along a stream which he correctly guessed flowed into the Dnieper River. He wanted the big river between him and the Russians before he moved west again but the ice was perilously thin. They had waited until night to cross in the hope that the drop in temperature would make the ice a fraction thicker. Then the men had started to cross, well spread out, one at a time. While the ice had rumbled and sometimes cracked, most had got across without incident and fires were lit on the far bank to guide those across where the ice seemed thickest. There was no question of bringing across the heavy cannon, but they had dozens of carts containing the wounded. With all the men on foot across, Ney ordered an attempt be made at bringing one of the lighter carts of wounded over the ice.

  One can only imagine the thoughts of the wounded on that cart. If they stayed behind they would freeze to death or be murdered by roving Cossacks. But if the cart went through a hole in the ice they would be swept away by the current and drown. De Briqueville, it turned out, was the mad Hector who had volunteered to drive this first cart over the ice.

  “God,” he told me, “you should have heard the noise the ice made as we started across. Bangs like musket shots while the poor devils wailed in terror in the cart behind me. A maze of little cracks spread out from the wheels and the horses started to panic, but I drove them on as the ice held. The further we went out the worse the noise got, but I thought we still had a chance. When we got to the middle I realised that we were surrounded by cracks and then the piece of ice we were on started to move. Before I could do anything it was tipping.”

  He absolutely shuddered, either at the imagined cold or at the memory before continuing. “I just managed to throw myself clear as the cart plunged through the ice. The men inside were screaming as it dragged them and the horses down under the ice after it. For a moment I was in open water and by the saints, the cold cut into me like lance points. The current pulled at me but I managed to grab hold of a jagged edge of ice around the hole we had fallen through. My fingers were already frozen and the flow of the river was strong. I thought I was lost and then I heard a voice calling my name and telling me to hold on. It was the marshal. He had crawled out on the ice to save me. He grabbed my wrist and somehow he hauled me out of the water. Some others came to help but the marshal waved them away, not wanting more weight on the ice. Then he dragged me all the way to the bank himself.”

  I sat back and looked on Ney with even greater respect after that. I could not imagine any British general doing the same. Oh, I have seen Wellington ride into danger many times and lead his men bravely from the front. But to so abandon his precious dignity and crawl out on his belly to rescue one of his men? No, I could not see it. He would look on with regret as you slipped under the ice and he would write a touching letter to your people expressing his sympathy, but nothing would get him crawling anywhere.

  De Briqueville never actually said it, but there was an unspoken understanding between us that he was Ney’s man to the end. I was welcome to join him while I was doing the marshal no harm, but if he sensed I was doing the marshal a disservice I had better watch my back. He was still wary of me as an agent of Clarke and knowing that slippery bastard you could not blame him for that. He asked me plenty of questions about my own service and while I could talk about battles I had been at, I always had to start evading answers when he talked of other officers and general camp life. Thank God he had never served in Spain or I would have been truly lost. He was still suspicious of me until I had the most extraordinary stroke of luck. We were sitting together in a large café in the centre of Paris when I saw a man I knew.

  “Isn’t that Major Lagarde?” I asked pointing to a tall grey-haired officer who had just walked in. Even in a room half full of soldiers, his ramrod straight bearing stood out as a man who age had clearly not bent.

  “It is Colonel Lagarde now, do know him?” asked de Briqueville. He was clearly intrigued to find at last another Fren
ch officer who might know me.

  “Yes, we served together in Spain.” Lagarde had commanded the escort taking Grant from Spain to Bayonne in France. I had joined his men disguised as Lieutenant Moreau to rescue Grant. Lagarde and the other officers in the group had been most uncomfortable about taking a man who had surrendered honourably towards their capital, where they knew torture awaited him. So they had delivered him to the city square in Bayonne as they were ordered, but as Clarke’s agents were not there to collect the prisoner, they simply abandoned his cart to give him a chance to escape. I had known that Clarke’s agents would probably not be there as messages had been intercepted by the partisans and delivered to Wellington. But still the fool Grant would not escape as he had given his word not to until he had reached Paris. You can read about that affair in my earlier memoirs. For now, I just thanked my stars that I had kept the same French name I had used before.

  “Then you must introduce yourself to him,” insisted de Briqueville, getting up and clearly suspecting that I did not know Lagarde at all. But he needn’t have worried for the man himself saw us staring at him and quickly beamed in recognition.

  “Moreau, by Satan’s beard what fool made you a colonel? Congratulations, my friend, I am pleased to see you have lived long enough to see the peace, such as this humiliating fiasco is.” He turned to de Briqueville and added, “You want to watch this mad lunatic, he keeps disappearing on you when you least expect it. If he is not charging alone into a partisan attack, he slips away when he is safe in France.” I started at that for he was obviously referring to when I left his company to try and rescue Grant. But Lagarde must have seen the consternation cross my face and held up a hand to forestall any explanation. “To protect your honour let’s not discuss that here. I can guess where you went and even if your entreaties to get the stubborn fool to run were as ineffectual as my own, well I respect you for trying.” He laughed before adding, “Now let me buy you both a drink and this time, Moreau, I am going to insist that you stay here to finish it.”