The Irish Witch

by Dennis Wheatley

  Next morning, the 18th, the Allies launched a general offensive. Again Roger went up to the roof of the palace and watched the battle. From the south-west right round to the north-west, the city was ringed by over a thousand flashing guns. Cohorts of cavalry and great masses of infantry were pressing forward on every side but, as on the Saturday, clouds of dense smoke soon hid most of the fighting. Later in the day he learned that at Paunsdorf, to the north-east, the Allies had broken through the ring of the defence, owing to three thousand Saxons having gone over to the Russians and taking with them nineteen guns which they promptly turned on the hated French.

  By evening Roger decided that the battle was now irretrievably lost and that, for him, it was time to go. His friend having had a bed put up for him in a clothes closet now proved a piece of unexpected good fortune as, on his hazardous way up to Hamburg, civilian clothing would protect him from stray bands of Germans. When he tried on some of the clothes, he found that they had all been made for a man a few inches shorter than himself and much fatter; but that could not be helped. He chose two cloth suits, some shirts and other garments, packed them, with his own possessions, into a portmanteau and hobbled downstairs with it.

  Berthier had left all the headquarters transport in the palace stables, and the Mess cart in which Roger had travelled from Dresden was among it. The name of the man who had driven it was Dopet. Routing him out from among his fellow drivers, Roger said he had been ordered to leave the city at once with certain important papers, to ensure that they should not fall into the hands of the enemy; then had him put the portmanteau in the Mess cart.

  Accompanied by Dopet, he went to the kitchen and collected ample stores for the journey. Next, he secured two muskets and a good supply of ammunition from the guardhouse. Finally, while Dopet harnessed a stout little cob between the shafts of the cart, Roger made himself a comfortable seat in the back from half a truss of hay. Then they set off into the semi-dark streets which resembled an oasis in an inferno, as on the outskirts of the city there were constant explosions and many houses in the suburbs were on fire.

  Under Roger’s direction they reached the bridges to the west of Leipzig. Only in that quarter was there now no fighting in progress, but considerable numbers of men were crossing the river. Roger guessed that they were deserters, and in fact they were only anticipating the Emperor’s order given to Berthier a few hours later that night, that the whole army should retreat.

  Later Roger learned that he had been lucky to get out of Leipzig when he had, as during the night the bridges became ever more crowded and on the following morning it was only with difficulty that a way was made for the Emperor’s coach. By then all that was left of his army was converging from south, east and north on to the one road leading west. The narrow streets of Leipzig were half blocked by abandoned guns and wagons. Between them squeezed solid masses of panic-stricken troops, breathlessly fighting their way toward the bridges. Hundreds of bursting cannon-balls, coming from three directions, added to the horror and confusion. Dead and wounded alike were trampled on by those still capable of making a desperate attempt to escape from that inferno. Many buildings were on fire, and in the suburbs Austrians, Russians, Prussians, Swedes and Saxons drove the wretched French from building to building, until tens of thousands of them had been forced out of the city in helpless herds.

  The bridges were hopelessly inadequate for such masses to cross except in a comparative trickle. Early in the day the situation was still worsened by one bridge collapsing and another—the largest—being prematurely blown up owing to an error by a nervous Sapper. In desperation the fleeing host sought to escape by swimming the river. There followed a scene reminiscent of the crossing of the Beresina during the retreat from Moscow the previous winter. Hundreds of missiles exploded in the water and on both banks, creating a holocaust. Thousands of men were killed and thousands of others caught up in a tangle of bodies, and drowned.

  Among the latter was the gallant Prince Poniatowski who for so many years had loyally led his Polish division in Napoleon’s battles, vainly clinging to the faithless Corsican’s promise that in due course he would restore Poland as an independent Kingdom. The Prince’s death was the more tragic in that, only the previous day, Napoleon had made him a Marshal.

  During those terrible twenty-four hours that saw the final defeat and utter rout of the great army that Napoleon had mustered in Germany early that summer, Roger succeeded in getting well clear of the battle area and the early deserters who had crossed the bridges the previous evening, as he had. They naturally took the roads to the south, hoping to reach the Rhine and the protection of the many French-held fortresses along it; whereas Roger’s destination was Hamburg, so he had Dopet take a byroad leading north-west.

  By morning they had covered some twenty miles and when full daylight came he decided that they must give the little cob several hours’ rest. The most likely way of avoiding dangerous encounters was to spend the time in a wood, so when they next came to a track leading into one, he told Dopet to drive up it. At a brook they watered the animal, fed it, ate a meal, then made themselves as comfortable as they could in the Mess cart.

  About midday they roused and had another meal. During it Roger told Dopet that they were going to Hamburg, so would have to pass through country where they were almost certain to run into bands of German irregulars. He then opened the suitcase, showed Dopet the two civilian suits, and said, ‘We are going to change into these, then we can pass as Germans. That is, provided you don’t open your mouth. I speak German quite fluently enough to be taken in these parts for a Rhinelander, so if we are challenged, I think we should get by without trouble.’

  Dopet was a sturdy, unimaginative young Fleming, and although he would have much preferred to travel south rather than north, he had been in the Army long enough to know that one did not argue with officers. When they had changed, both showed amusement at the other’s appearance. Dopet being shorter than Roger his trousers were the right length, but he had powerful shoulders, so when he struggled into the coat it burst at one of the seams; while Roger’s coat fitted fairly well, but his trousers were absurdly short. They got over the fact that the owner of the clothes had had a large paunch by folding the slack under tightened belts. However, their appearance was a matter of no great concern, as they were not attempting to pass as persons of quality, and at that date clothes were so scarce in Germany that those they were wearing might easily have been bought second-hand.

  Having packed their uniforms in the suitcase, they set off, and by late afternoon had covered another fifteen miles. They then rested again for several hours in the neck of a wood. From a map Roger had brought with him, he knew that the little town of Sangerhausen lay some twelve miles ahead, and he wanted to pass through it during the hours of darkness; so at about one o’clock in the morning they took the road again. Well before five o’clock they were clear of the sleeping town and, a few miles beyond it, settled on another suitable spot for a long rest.

  By moving from Dresden to Leipzig Roger had reduced his distance from Hamburg by about fifty miles, and now they had come another fifty; but they still had a hundred and fifty to cover and, anxious as he was to reach Hamburg, he felt that the utmost that could be expected of the little cob that drew the Mess cart was twenty-five miles a day.

  Since he had been used, when on an urgent matter, to ride a hundred or more miles a day, he found this slow pace terribly frustrating. Yet there was no alternative. Even if he could have secured a horse, he would not have dared ride at more than walking pace with his terribly torn leg only recently healed. Walking beside the cart, for a good part of each day while Dopet led the cob, was better for his leg.

  While he limped along, he became ever more depressed at the probable outcome of his journey. Admittedly, he had never known one of Georgina’s predictions about the future fail to come to pass, yet fundamentally her vision of Charles was absurd, because whatever crime Charles had committed, he was an officer and i
f he were condemned to death, he would not be hanged but shot. Yet, adoring Georgina as he did, how could he possibly not have volunteered to undertake this forlorn hope of changing the course of Charles’s fortune by getting him back to England? He could only console himself by the thought that, having spent three months journeying from one end of Europe to the other, in another few days he would have done all he could and at last learn if Charles was already dead or still alive.

  As they slowly wound their way northward they met other travellers with some of whom Roger discussed the war. The news of Napoleon’s crushing defeat at the Battle of the Nations had sped ahead of them, and the inhabitants of every German village were wild with delight. Here and there they were passed by bands of irregulars, all now marching south, with the hope of joining in the pursuit of the broken French.

  It was not until they reached Brunswick that they saw any French troops at all. But the city was an important junction so Davout still kept a strong garrison there, and the citizens were clearly overawed by the groups of surly-looking Grenadiers who patrolled the main streets or lounged, silent and unhappy, in the cafés.

  While working with Berthier, Roger had frequently heard Davout’s position discussed. After the retreat from Moscow, the Emperor had made him Governor of the Lower Elbe, and instructed him to turn Hamburg into an impregnable fortress from which, in conjunction with their Danish allies, he could hold down the whole of north-west Germany.

  No choice for such a task could have been better than the ‘Iron Marshal’, as Davout, Prince d’Eckmühl and Duc d’Auerstâdt, was called by the Army. He was the only Marshal who had studied and understood Napoleon’s revolutionary methods of warfare, so was a very formidable soldier. He was also an able administrator, completely ruthless and the strictest of disciplinarians.

  In Napoleon’s two bids, earlier in the year, to take Berlin, he had hoped that Davout might come to the assistance of Ney and Oudinot. That he had been unable to do, because his limited forces were already stretched to the utmost putting down patriotic risings in Hanover, Mecklenburg and Brunswick; but he had carried out his assignment regarding Hamburg with an iron hand. The whole of Germany being in a state of semi-starvation, to conserve his supplies he had first forcibly evacuated three thousand children; then, also as useless mouths, all the elderly people in the city. To reduce to a minimum secret subscriptions by citizens to patriotic societies and subversive movements, he had inflicted taxes on the wealthy that had reduced them to near poverty, and imprisoned many of the leading merchants as hostages. His dread tribunals sat daily, and sent to execution anyone found guilty of having offended against even his minor ordinances.

  The state of gloom and terror existing in the great port on the Elbe had been confirmed by several Germans to whom Roger had recently spoken; so when, on October 27th, he came in sight of the city spires, he knew how matters stood there, but he did not intend to enter the city. Some three miles outside the walls he had Dopet turn into a coppice and there the two of them changed from their ill-fitting civilian clothes back into uniform. They then took a side road to Herrenhausen, which lay just outside the city. Near it stood an ancient castle that, until the end of the past century, had been the residence of the sovereigns of Great Britain when they visited their Kingdom of Hanover. It was there that Davout had had his headquarters in 1810 when, before the Russian campaign, he had been commanding in Hamburg and Roger had been sent to him on a mission.

  It was soon after midday when the Mess cart, now driven by Dopet and with Roger riding in it, pulled up outside the great gate of the castle. As Roger got out of the cart the sentry came smartly to attention and presented arms. Roger’s surmise that Davout had again made the place his headquarters proved correct. The sergeant of the guard sent a man to show Dopet where to stable his cob and cart, and another to escort Roger up to the Marshal Prince’s quarters.

  Having announced himself as Colonel Comte de Breuc to an adjutant there, Roger learned that Davout had ridden in to the city that morning, but was expected back to dinner. Deciding to put his necessary wait to good advantage, Roger asked to be conducted to the department that dealt with officer prisoners-of-war. He was taken to a room in one of the towers, where a sergeant was shuffling through some papers. Duly impressed by Roger’s sash, which proclaimed him to be an A.D.C. to the Emperor, the sergeant hastened to produce a ledger and he was soon able to tell Roger that Charles was a prisoner with some hundred other officers at Schloss Bergedorf, which was some ten miles distant.

  Immensely relieved to learn that Charles was still alive, and at having at last run his quarry to earth, Roger went down the spiral stairs, enquired the whereabouts of the anteroom to the Marshal’s office, and sat down there to await his return.

  The wait was a long one, but at about half-past four Davout, grim-faced as ever, came striding in, his spurs clinking and his riding boots resounding on the parquet. Roger promptly stood up, came to attention and saluted.

  Halting abruptly, the Marshal gave him an unsmiling stare and asked, ‘What brings you here, Breuc?’

  ‘I come, Your Highness, from His Imperial Majesty,’ Roger replied.

  Davout motioned toward his office. ‘Come in then, and give me such news as you have of him.’

  When Roger had followed him in and been waved to a chair, he said, ‘Alas, Your Highness, I can tell you no more than that I last saw the Emperor in Leipzig shortly before disaster overtook our army. But I have a warrant from him that he ordered me to present to you.’

  As he spoke, Roger produced the paper he had obtained from Napoleon, ordering that Charles should be handed over to him, and placed it on Davout’s desk.

  Passing a hand over his bald head, the Marshal read it through quickly, then asked, ‘What is the reason for this? Why does the Emperor wish me to transfer the custody of this young Englishmen to you?’

  ‘Because I have a special interest in him, Your Highness. As you may know, my mother was English, and this youth is my nephew. The Emperor graciously agreed that, if possible, I should be allowed to make arrangements for him to be sent back to England, on condition that he did not serve actively again in the war against us.’

  Davout frowned. ‘I am most strongly opposed to sentiment being allowed to interfere with war. You should be engaged on your proper duties instead of travelling many miles to secure the release of a relative who is an enemy. However, that is not in my jurisdiction, and the Emperor’s command must be obeyed. I will find out where this officer is being held prisoner.’

  ‘While awaiting your return I took the liberty of doing so, Your Highness. He is at Schloss Bergedorf.’

  ‘Schloss Bergedorf!’ repeated Davout, with a sudden lift of his grey eyebrows. ‘Then he may no longer be there. Some days ago, when the prisoners at the Schloss learned of our defeat at Leipzig, they got out of hand. There was a mutiny. Several were shot, but twenty-seven broke prison and escaped.’

  Roger went pale. He swallowed hard, then gasped, ‘Do you … do you know if St. Ermins was among them?’

  The Marshal’s face took on a vicious look and his voice was almost a snarl. ‘No, I do not. But one thing I do know. I have given orders that any of the escapers who are recaptured are to be hanged.’

  ‘Hanged!’ Roger came to his feet. ‘But you can’t do that! Even if you condemn them to death, which would be unjustifiably severe, they are officers, so they have the right to be shot.’

  ‘Silence!’ Davout snapped. ‘Who are you that you should dare to tell me my business? To hold down these German curs is the hardest task I have ever had. Officers they may be, but they are Germans and, until recently, our allies. By turning their coats they have become traitors. The penalty of a traitor who is caught is to be hanged, and this will serve as a warning to any of their compatriots who are my prisoners and tempted to make trouble.’

  ‘I pray to God then that none of those who escaped will be recaptured.’

  ‘Then you’ll pray in vain,’ the Marshal re
torted harshly. ‘Nine of them were recaptured this morning. They will be given a few hours to see priests if they wish, and make known their last wishes. But before sunset they will be dancing at the end of ropes.’

  18

  Fate Strikes Again

  For a moment Roger gazed at the Marshal in horror. Several of the prisoners had been shot while trying to escape, and now nine who had been recaptured were to be hanged. He had no doubt that Charles was among the latter.

  Fantastic as it seemed, the scene Georgina had witnessed in her crystal had, after all, been a true vision of the future. Even more fantastic, Fate had caused him to travel many hundreds of miles uselessly and delayed him again and again in his search for Charles, yet brought him within a few miles of the place where a rope was to be put round his neck, on the very day he was condemned to die. Clearly this was the work of Providence; there could be no doubt of that.

  But suddenly it flashed into Roger’s mind that the issue was not yet settled. Unless he could reach Schloss Bergedorf within an hour or so it might be too late. He might find Charles’s body, with that of eight others, dangling from the branches of trees. Without another word to Davout, he turned and strode toward the door.

  ‘Halt!’ came the sharp command from behind him.

  Automatically he obeyed and again faced the Marshal, who glowered at him and said, ‘You seem to have forgotten the respect due to a senior officer, Colonel.’

  Roger saluted. ‘My apologies, Your Highness. The peril in which my nephew stands drove all other thoughts temporarily from my mind.’

  ‘You seem very attached to this nephew of yours.’

  ‘I am indeed.’

  ‘Yet you are citizens of different countries, which have for many years been at war. You cannot have seen him since he was a child.’

  Galling as it was to Roger to have to waste precious moments giving an explanation to the Marshal, there was no avoiding it, and he replied, ‘As I stated a moment back, Highness, by blood I am half English. Moreover, I was brought up there, and still have many acquaintances in that country who believe me to be an Englishman. His Imperial Majesty has long been aware of this, and on numerous occasions has sent me to England in secret to report to him upon the morale of our enemies. During these visits, which were at times several months in duration, I naturally saw a great deal of my relations.’