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

by Robert Brightwell

  Otranto did not bat an eyelid before calmly replying. “Your Majesty will remember that I was among those who signed the execution order for the old king. The royalists will never forgive me for that. I believe I have always given you sound advice, I counselled against your invasions of Spain and Russia, which have greatly diminished our forces and just now I have returned ten thousand men to your army by preventing a revolt in the Vendée.”

  “So why do you write to our enemies?” demanded the civilian.

  “To spread doubt and confusion. My agents are constantly sending them reports of our preparations, some true and some false, so that any report from a royalist is just one of many. They will receive so much information that it will be hard to judge what they can rely on.” He paused before adding casually, “But as an added precaution one of my men is working in the office of this Colquhoun Grant. He can remove messages or add more as necessary.” He looked pointedly at the civilian before concluding, “I have been watching and spreading confusion among our enemies for many years. Giving them too much information is always more effective than trying to leave them with too little.”

  I peered around the column again to see how this was being received. Napoleon was nodding slowly in agreement and the others around the table could see the sense in Otranto’s claim. “We must leave you to do what you do best,” said the emperor enigmatically. Now we must consider what I do best and that is beating our enemies in the field.” He turned to Davout. “Can you get me two hundred thousand men ready to campaign by the end of June?”

  “One way or another it will be done, sire.”

  “Then, gentlemen, we will prepare to attack our enemies at the start of July. By then the British and Prussians will be distracted preparing for their own assault and the Austrians and Russians will have yet to come to their aid.”

  I stood there stunned at what I was hearing. I had come expecting to listen to the preparations for the Champ du Mai celebrations, but instead here I was eavesdropping on the most powerful men in France as they planned a surprise attack on the forces of my own country.

  The group of staff officers I stood amongst were all slapping each other on the back at the news. My hand was shaken by at least two of them as they congratulated themselves on being there at this historic moment. They had no doubt that victory would be imminent.

  “Our attack will be the last thing they expect,” one of my new colleagues whispered as we watched the cabinet meeting come to a close. “Our veterans will tear through their inexperienced troops,” he assured those standing around me. If they caught the allies unprepared I had a horrible feeling he would be proved right. I remembered Hobhouse telling me that the British government could fall with one major set-back. If the supply of gold from Britain to the other allies dried up then it was likely that the alliance would fall apart. Prussia was broke, the Austrians would negotiate a deal using Napoleon’s son as leverage and the Russians could not maintain an army so far from home for long.

  I went with Davout and the rest of his staff back to the carriage with my head in a spin. I had spent so long in France that my loyalties were divided. I did not doubt that France would be better off under Napoleon than the fat King Louis, not to mention the aristocrats who wanted to wind the country back to the past. But equally, I was not fooled by the emperor’s protestations of wanting peace. If he beat the allies he would be secure on his throne. Then he would make plans to rebuild France and in due course, he would expand his empire again.

  I did not give a stuff about the ‘Age of Enlightenment,’ principles, constitutions or politics. But what I did care most passionately about was preserving the precious skin of one T. Flashman Esquire. That delicate hide had already been pierced more than once fighting the French. With my ill fortune, it seemed to me that if war were to continue there was every chance it would be endangered again. With a nauseating sense of fear I realised that there was only one way to guarantee long-term peace and that was to ensure that the French attack did not have the element of surprise. And the only person who could do that was me.

  Chapter 21

  It was a small terraced house in the Montmartre district of Paris, certainly not the typical location to hold the future of Europe in the balance. I had walked past both ends of the street from different directions. I had even loitered for a while at one end of it, at least until some local tart thought I was there looking for company. I could not see anyone else watching the house, but it was overlooked by at least half a dozen other properties. It was the address on the card given to me by Grant. From what I had heard from Otranto, it was likely that his men were either watching the house or perhaps the person who lived there was one of his agents. But this was the only means I had of getting a message to the British. I had already decided that I would not send anything addressed to Grant, for that was certain to be intercepted. Instead, I planned to write directly to Wellington, but that still relied on the courier being loyal. If they were an agent then I would be seized with no doubt torture to follow and execution if I survived the agonies of my interrogation.

  I had already considered and dismissed the idea of making a bolt for the border on horseback myself. It had turned out that I was not the only one at the cabinet meeting with a link with the allies: a ministerial official called Calvet had already tried a midnight ride towards Brussels to warn them. I saw the orders for increased cavalry patrols to find him. They were scouring the countryside and a day later came the report that he had been found. Bizarrely he had been discovered dead in a barn. I could not run; Davout had his staff report to him daily. My absence would be noted in a few hours and a message on their semaphore signalling stations would swiftly outrun a man on horseback. It was not worth the risk. So it was that for the five days following the cabinet meeting I had dithered over what to do. Not that I had been given much time to think with the continued frantic preparations for the Champ du Mai on top of other work to get a fighting army of two hundred thousand men ready by the beginning of July.

  So it was that early on the morning of the 1st of June, the day of the Champ du Mai itself, I was once more walking hesitantly past the Montmartre street. I was still in a flurry of indecision and thinking of the carefully worded letter I had written and hidden under the floorboards in my rooms. Napoleon’s plans were precisely the information that I had been left in Paris to discover. If it was ever revealed that I had been in that meeting and did not try to pass them on I would be ruined. But as far as I could see, if I did attempt to get a message out I was most likely to be caught. There would be no public trial – Napoleon and Davout would not want to reveal that the British had a highly placed agent. My fate was likely to be a shot or a blade in some grubby basement and then an unmarked grave.

  For the umpteenth time, I felt my resolve melt away and hurried back into the centre of the city. The ceremonies were to be centred around the Ecole Militaire, the military school in the centre of Paris. Huge staging had been built around the facade with seating for dignitaries and the five hundred members of the newly elected houses of government. No less than forty-five thousand troops, perfectly buttoned, I might add, would also be arrayed there to receive eagles, while thousands more members of the Imperial Guard would line the route from the Tuileries and serve as the emperor’s escort.

  I will admit that I felt some pride when I saw those immaculately arrayed ranks of men and I had to remind myself that they were the enemy. I had worked hard to ensure that they were fully equipped, but now I had nothing to do but enjoy the spectacle myself. The public and officials were already arriving; it was to be the biggest state occasion for many years and most were getting there early. Slowly the crowds built until there was barely room to move and then the thunder of a hundred cannon from the Tuileries announced that the emperor had started the procession. It took over an hour for him to cover the short distance. The cheering of the crowd was virtually drowned out by gun salutes from various batteries put in place to defend the city and half a do
zen regimental bands. No less than nineteen state coaches pulled into the square to deliver members of the emperor’s family and ministers before a huge gold vehicle conveying the emperor finally hove into view. Four marshals of France rode alongside it as personal escorts, including Ney, who had been drafted in especially for the occasion. The cries of Vive l’Empereur! redoubled as the coach came to a stop at the end of the carpet and Napoleon finally stepped into view.

  I suppose after an entrance like that it was almost inevitable that the emperor’s appearance would be something of an anti-climax. He looked tired as he stepped down and was trying to adopt a stern, magisterial demeanour. But what really took your breath away was that amongst all this martial splendour, he had decided to arrive dressed like some prize frosted plum. It was a purple velvet confection, with white ermine around his shoulders and a black hat adorned with lace and so many white feathers it looked like an explosion in a dovecote.

  “What on earth is he wearing?” I asked the man beside me. I had to shout the question over the roar of the crowd.

  “They are his imperial coronation robes,” he bellowed back. Then he gestured at the cheering people in the stands and yelled, “Everyone in Paris must be here.” I nodded in agreement and then I was struck by inspiration. He was right, there were hundreds of thousands watching the ceremony and lining the route. The streets would be empty; there would never be a better time to deliver my message. The courier might be watching the ceremony too, but that did not matter, I would slide the message under the door. Indeed if they had been turned by Otranto, it would be better if the agent did not see me. I would have done my duty and if things miscarried, well it would not be my fault. That would be Grant’s responsibility as it was his courier.

  “I just need to check on something,” I shouted to my companion and turned to start working my way back through the crowd. That was easier said than done as every conceivable vantage point had been taken, but eventually after a lot of pushing and shoving I was clear. The surrounding streets were thronged with people too and it took over half an hour to get back to my lodging. I quickly changed out of my uniform into clothes that I thought would be less conspicuous and put the message in my pocket. Then as I left I found a grubby coat and wide-brimmed hat on a peg in the hallway and put those on too. They would hide my clothes and leave my face in shadow if anyone was still watching the house. Then I was climbing the hill back up to the Montmartre district of the city and increasingly feeling like my heart was up near my throat.

  I doubt I passed more than a dozen people between my lodgings and the courier’s address, but that only calmed my nerves a little. I was out of breath when I got there. I was not sure if that was due to the steep streets or anxiety, for the closer I got the more I appreciated the risk I was taking. When I reached the end of the now familiar street I hesitated once more. I was in a blue funk by then and very nearly turned around again. Only by reminding myself that I had to do something to get a message out and I would never get a better chance, did I find the courage to go forward.

  Every window I passed was empty. The only sound a dog barking in a yard behind the terrace. The houses opened directly onto the street and I looked carefully at the fronts until I found the one I wanted. I strode over to it as casually as I could and nonchalantly bent down to push my note firmly under the door. I heard the wax seal skitter over the tiles inside as I stood up, feeling a weight of responsibility fall from my shoulders. That was it, I had done my duty. I pulled my hat a little lower and tried to slouch a little more as I began to saunter away. Two paces, then three and still not a shout to stop or the sound of boots running in pursuit. Then came a sound that seemed as ominous as the cocking of a gun, for I heard the noise of the door being unlatched behind me.

  “Hello, Monsieur.” If it had been a man’s voice I would probably have made a run for it, but it was a woman’s and I instinctively turned to look. And what a woman! She was in her early twenties, blonde curls escaping down her cheek from under her mop cap. Her cornflower -blue eyes were wide open with a look of innocent enquiry and as I ran my gaze down her shapely body I saw that she was holding my letter in her hand.

  “Are you the courier?” I blurted out and watched as a shadow of fear crossed her face as she glanced quickly up and down the street.

  “Quickly, Monsieur, come inside,” she replied gesturing for me to follow her into the cottage. “Were you followed?” she asked as she shut the door behind me.

  “No, I checked several times on the way here but everybody seems to be in the city watching the ceremonies.”

  “Yes, I wanted to go but my father said I must stay here while he is away. Please take a seat. Would you like some wine?”

  “Thank you, but are you sure this house is not being watched?” I sat down, torn between a desire to know that she could get the message out and an urge to be as far away from this little cottage as possible now that the note was out of my hands.

  “Don’t worry, we know all of our neighbours and we look after each other. You will be quite safe here.” I relaxed slightly and took a deep draught of the offered wine. The girl was an uncommon beauty and while many such stunners have learned to use their looks for their own ends, there were no such flirtatious glances from her. With danger apparently past I felt a familiar stirring in my loins.

  “Do you live here with your husband?” I probed.

  She paused in her tidying up of the small room and crossed herself as she almost whispered. “No, my François was killed in Russia three years ago. He did not want to be a soldier, but they made him go and now he is dead. I have lived here with my father ever since.”

  “And is your father the courier?”

  “Oh…I…I am not allowed to say.”

  I could not help but laugh at that. “What do you mean you cannot tell me? You invited me into your house when I asked if it was you, so you obviously know.”

  “You could be an agent from the Ministry of Police,” she retorted.

  “If I was you would already be under arrest and anyway would an agent deliver a letter addressed to the Duke of Wellington?” As I said the words I thought that in fact, that would be an excellent way to confirm someone was a courier. But I was already getting the impression that the girl was not the sharpest knife in the block and I doubted she would notice. She bit her lip in consternation and looked down at the letter, now on her table, apparently noticing the address for the first time.

  “I don’t know,” she murmured half to herself. She reached up and tucked the escaped curl back under her cap, her clothes tightening over her ample breast as she moved. My mouth went dry as I watched her body move under the simple cotton blouse. It had been months since I had been with a woman, with only the frustrating experiences with Pauline in between. I could not remember when I had wanted one more.

  “Come and sit down beside me,” I said hoarsely patting the bench before taking another sip of wine.

  “My father says I must not tell anyone what we do,” she declared as she sat down.

  “I know,” I soothed. “Tell me, do you want to see Napoleon beaten?”

  “Oh yes, more than anything!” The gleam was back in her eye now. “If it had not been for him then my François would still be alive. We had only been married for six months when they took him away and we had been so happy. I hate the emperor and all of his generals. We rejoiced when he was beaten and the king came back, but now everything is ruined again.”

  I shifted round to face her and reached out to grip her shoulder, feeling her warm flesh under my fingertips as I looked her in the eye. “The letter on that table will get rid of Napoleon once and for all.”

  “Will it bring back the king?” she whispered, glancing at the letter with awe as though it had transformed into the Holy Grail.

  Yes, the king’s whole future rests on your beautiful shoulders,” I caressed her collarbone with my thumb… and your father, if he is the courier.”

  She flushed at that and got
up, taking that comely body away from me. “Yes, my father is the courier. He is a leather merchant and takes messages hidden among the hides in his cart. He has a skin with a secret pocket in it. He has been stopped many times but they have never found it.”

  “Excellent. But this is really important. I know he normally gives his messages to a Colonel Grant, but it is vital that he gives this letter to no one else but General Wellington. The general will reward your father well, for the message inside ensures his victory. With Napoleon beaten the king will return to the throne – you can see how his fate rests with you.”

  “I will tell him,” she assured me solemnly. “He will be back tomorrow and he can be in Brussels in a week.” That, I thought would be fast enough to give Wellington plenty of warning of what to expect. But given everything Otranto had said, I still had a nagging doubt that things were not as secure as the girl promised.

  “Are you sure that no one is watching you or your father or suspects what you are doing?”

  “I am certain. Only my friend Amélie, who lives next door, knows what my father does. She has an uncle that does the same, but I will make sure that it is my father who takes your message.”

  “But agents of the police…” I started only for her to mutter some incoherent curse, cross herself and spit into the fireplace.

  “That devil Fouché will have to kill me to stop the return of the king,” she vowed her eyes ablaze now with a sudden passion.

  “Fouché?” I asked puzzled. “But surely he is now long gone.” Fouché had been in charge of the secret police when I had first visited Paris back in ’02 during the peace. I had been with Wickham, Britain’s spymaster then, who had viewed Fouché as a formidable opponent. But when I was back in Paris in 1812 there had been a new man in charge.

  “No, he has come back again to serve the usurping tyrant that sits on his stolen throne. He is the very devil. They say he has files on everyone, even the emperor, and that he blackmails and schemes to get his way.”