The Irish Witch

by Dennis Wheatley

Again Roger shook his head. ‘The excuse you suggest might be accepted, but I’ll not risk it. I could be useful to him in so many ways that the odds are he would insist on forcing me into some employment. Besides, I am anxious to get Charles home and so put an end to his dear mother’s anxiety about his still being alive.’

  The Prince shrugged. ‘I’ll say no more then. How do you propose to get back to England?’

  ‘I hope, as I have done many times before, to find some smuggler along the coast who will run us over.’

  ‘You’ll not find that so easy as you did in the past. Now that the Allies are closing in about us it is feared that the English might attempt to land an army in Normandy or Brittany, so the coast is much more carefully guarded.’

  ‘Sir,’ Charles addressed Roger. ‘I did not put on a uniform merely to strut about in it, but to play my part on active service. It was my intention when we reached England to sail again as soon as possible, in order to rejoin His Grace of Wellington’s army. There is an alternative, though. Why should we not travel south direct to it? That would save me the voyage from England to Spain, and you would have no need to risk yourself with a smuggler. You could go home in safety and comfort in one of our ships sailing from a Spanish port.’

  Roger considered for only a moment, then he smiled. ‘Charles, you have something there. It is an excellent idea.’

  So the matter was settled. Two days later, on New Year’s Day 1814, they left Paris in a comfortable travelling coach, generously provided by Talleyrand who, when they took leave of him, handed Roger a letter which he asked him to deliver to Wellington.

  They made the journey through France without incident, and on January 11th reached Bayonne, which was now actually in the battle zone. There they put up at a modest hostelry and next morning, having given Talleyrand’s coachman a handsome pourboire, Roger sent him back to Paris with the coach. He then bought two good horses and, with their portmanteaux strapped to the backs of their saddles, they took the road east to Bidache.

  From time to time Roger had heard news of the war in the south and, as he had expected, Marshal Soult had proved a much more redoubtable opponent than had King Joseph and Jourdan. During the late summer Wellington had driven the French back across the Pyrenees with a loss of ten thousand men, but his advance had then been badly held up by the fortresses of San Sebastian and Pamplona. It was not until the end of the first week in October that he had been able to plant the British flag on French soil, and he had then had to force the line of the river Bidassoa, which Soult had fortified with a chain of strong redoubts.

  From there the French had fallen back on a still stronger line along the river Nivelle. It ran through very rugged country which greatly favoured the defence, and during the whole of November the weather had been appalling, which further hampered offensive operations; so it was not until the 10th that, after many desperate assaults, the enemy had been driven from it. Soult had then retired to the river Nive at the mouth of which lay the great fortress of Bayonne. This had placed Wellington at a strategic disadvantage because, further inland, his army was divided by the river into two parts. The able Soult had first concentrated his army on the west bank, hoping to defeat that half of the British force. Failing in that, he had transferred his troops to the east bank and endeavoured to overwhelm the one British and one Portuguese division there under the command of Sir Rowland Hill; but again he had been defeated. By December 13th the whole of Soult’s army had been driven back and taken refuge among the ring of forts surrounding Bayonne.

  On the evening of their arrival in the city and during the night, Roger and Charles frequently heard the sound of cannon as the British bombarded the forts to the south of Bayonne and the forts returning the fire. It was not until they had ridden several miles along the road inland that the sounds of battle faded in the distance. At an easy pace they covered the twenty miles to Bidache and Roger was greatly relieved to find that now, ten weeks after the last operation on his leg, riding did not pain or unduly tire him.

  They had a meal at an inn in Bidache, and rested for a couple of hours. The little town lay on the fringe of the foothills of the Pyrenees, and that afternoon they took the road south toward the mountains. By making a big detour they had skirted right round the area in which there was fighting, so had seen only a few French troops escorting wagons. Evening found them in deserted, wooded country, some miles south of St. Palais. Noticing a small cave in a ridge of rocks a hundred yards or so off the track, they decided that it would be a good place to pass the night.

  They had not yet reached the snowline, but it was bitterly cold, so they got a fire going as quickly as they could. On it they cooked some slices of ham they had bought in Bidache; then, having warmed themselves up with a bottle of Bordeaux and lavish rations of Armagnac, they wrapped themselves in their cloaks and did their best to get some sleep on shallow piles of fir sprigs that they had broken off from the branches they had collected for their fire.

  In the morning, believing that they were now well outside French-held territory, Roger took off his old uniform coat, threw it away in the far end of the cave, and put on the grey cloth coat in which he had travelled from Germany. After watering their horses at a stream and giving them a feed, they ate some more of the ham, washed it down with another bottle of wine and resumed their journey.

  Soon after leaving the cave they came upon cross-roads, so they turned west in the direction of the coast. The morning passed in a tiring ride up over spurs and down across valleys, but early in the afternoon they saw ahead of them a group of tents and some red coats in a clearing by the trackside. A Lieutenant was in command of this outpost, and when they made it known that they were English he gave them a cheerful welcome.

  By the time they had warmed themselves at a fire and eaten a hot meal, the early winter dusk was already closing in, so they decided to remain there for the night. In the morning the Lieutenant showed them on his map the direction they should take to reach Wellington’s headquarters. It meant a ride of another twenty-five miles, but knowing they had succeeded in getting safely through the dangerous area, they took the road in good heart.

  After passing several other units of British troops they reached the headquarters soon after midday. It was a château with a beautiful view over the ridges of woodland to the north. Dismounting outside it, Roger sent in his name and that of Charles. Ten minutes later the Commander-in-Chief received them with his usual charm.

  However, he told them that he was just about to hold a conference of his senior officers, so must wait until later to hear such news as they had brought him. He then said they must join him for dinner and turned them over to one of his A.D.C.s with orders to provide them with accommodation. Having thanked him Roger, before leaving the room, handed him the letter he had brought from Talleyrand.

  Dinner that night proved a cheerful meal. Such brother officers as Charles knew on the Duke’s staff heartily welcomed him back among them. It emerged in conversation that they were confident of soon taking Bayonne and advancing on Bordeaux, where it was now known that a great part of the population was secretly eager to welcome the Allies. Intelligence had also been received that recently Napoleon had ordered Soult to send ten thousand men to assist in defending the eastern frontier of France. The Spanish troops had inflicted such atrocities on the French in the towns and villages they had captured that the Duke, who was anxious to gain the good will of the French people, had sent the Spaniards back to their own country. But even without them, Wellington now had such superiority in numbers that Soult’s final defeat could not be long delayed.

  When the port circulated there was an eager audience to hear Charles’s account of all that had befallen himself and Roger in Germany. The two of them then enjoyed a sound night’s sleep in comfortable beds.

  In the morning the Duke sent for Roger and said to him, ‘Mr. Brook, are you aware of the contents of the letter you brought me from Talleyrand?’

  ‘No, Your Grace,’ Roger repl
ied. ‘He told me nothing of it.’

  ‘I see. Well, to be brief, it is a most earnest appeal to me to use any influence I may have with you to persuade you to return to Paris.’

  Roger shook his head. ‘Your Grace must forgive me, but I am utterly sickened of war, and determined to go home to England.’

  ‘One moment,’ the Duke held up a finger. ‘Talleyrand points out, and I know this to be true, that you are the only man in all Europe who has special qualifications for possibly hastening the end of hostilities. You are in his confidence and mine. You have long been an A.D.C. to Napoleon, who believes you to be devoted to him. You are known and trusted by the Czar. You know Prince Metternich, Lord Castlereagh and scores of influential persons in our camp and that of the enemy.

  ‘You have served your country so long and so well that you are trapped by the circumstances you have yourself created. How can you possibly now refuse to serve her for a few more months? You are not a soldier, so I am in no position to order you to return, neither am I accustomed to beg; but on this occasion I beg you to do so.’

  Roger’s face showed an agony of indecision. After a moment, he said, ‘I … I don’t really know. Your Grace must give me twenty-four hours to think it over.’

  The Iron Duke’s stern features relaxed into a faint smile. ‘Mr. Brook, I will give you exactly two minutes.’

  With a sigh Roger returned the smile. ‘Your Grace leaves me no alternative. I will set out for Paris tomorrow.’

  21

  The Last Campaign

  It was on January 20th that Roger again arrived in Paris. Having found that he could now ride considerable distances without affecting his leg, he made the journey on horseback, but by easy stages. In the cave a few miles from St. Palais, in which he and Charles had passed a night, he found his old uniform coat where he had left it, so he was able to wear it on his journey through France, and command all the facilities to which his rank entitled him.

  Talleyrand, having been confident that the trick he had played on Roger would succeed, showed no surprise at his return, and only laughed when reproached for having trapped him.

  On his way north Roger had picked up many rumours of the rapidly changing situation throughout Europe. The Prince confirmed many of them, and gave him a true account of what had been happening.

  All Holland had now been liberated by von Bülow’s Prussians, with the assistance of a British expeditionary force that had landed under General Graham. The Czar had marched his army right through Switzerland, invaded eastern France and was now threatening Lyons. Schwarzenberg’s army had reached and crossed the Rhine in many places. Blücher, ever to the fore, had reached Luxembourg. Davout was still holding out in Hamburg, but Bernadotte had overcome the Danes who, on the 14th, had signed a peace treaty surrendering Norway to him.

  At that Roger commented with a laugh, ‘So that sly rogue has secured the plum he was after all the time, and got it with very little serious fighting. How mad the Emperor must be.’

  ‘He is, but the worst blow of all to him has been the defection of Murat.’

  ‘What! Murat gone over to the enemy?’

  ‘That is so, although ‘tis not yet known to the public. I received private intelligence of it from Prince Metternich. On the 11th of this month Murat signed a treaty with Austria, that in exchange for his supplying a corps of thirty thousand men, he should keep his Kingdom of Naples and, in addition, be given a sizeable piece of the old Papal territories.’

  ‘Such treachery is scarce believable. But Murat’s head is solid wood. This is the work of his wife, that scheming whore, Caroline.’

  ‘I judge you right. She was ever the most ambitious of Napoleon’s sisters and, with the possible exception of himself, the cleverest of the whole Bonaparte family. Moreover, when Metternich was ambassador in Paris he had an affair with her; so his personal inclination would be to favour her continued aggrandisement!’

  Roger raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘What a brood they are! Pauline alone among them is honest, and the only one who has shown any gratitude for the wealth and favours showered upon them.’

  ‘You forget Madame Mère.’

  ‘True, the old lady is a tower of rectitude, and at least conserved the great fortune she has been given, against a day when her wonder child should over-reach himself.’

  ‘That day has come, and he had much of it off her to pay for the two hundred thousand new uniforms he ordered when he got back to Paris last November,’

  After a moment Roger said, ‘I take it that, now Murat has ratted, we can count Italy lost to France, as well as all Germany, Holland and Switzerland.’

  ‘Not altogether. When the Emperor took over the command of the Elbe from Prince Eugène, he sent him back to his old post as Viceroy of Italy. The young Beauharnais at least is loyal, and an able General. Murat’s Neapolitans are not distinguished for their, love of battle, so Eugène has little to fear from them; and the Alps give him a strong line of defence to hold back the Austrians when they attempt to break through into the plain of Lombardy.

  ‘But now we must think of yourself. The Emperor is in Paris, so you must report to him. He is holding a reception at the Tuileries three days hence, before leaving for the front. That will be time enough for you to make your service to him. In the meantime I suggest you give out that your wound re-opened again recently, and go about on crutches.’

  Roger gave a wry smile. ‘You Highness’s advice is, as ever, sound. I’ll do that, and pray to God it saves me from being forced into some unwelcome post. I cannot go to the Tuileries though in this stained and threadbare uniform. So, with your permission, I’ll to my tailor without delay.’

  At his tailors Roger demanded and received priority; so, on the 23rd, he was able to accompany Talleyrand to the Tuileries dressed with all his old elegance; but, owing to the ministrations of the Prince’s valet, his appearance was very different from what it had been when he arrived in Paris.

  The man was an artist in make-up, and had skilfully transformed Roger’s face. A liquid had made his cheeks pale, without appearing to be painted or powdered, there were deep shadows under his eyes and little lines radiating from the corners and from the sides of his mouth. The naturally grey wings of hair above his ears now merged into grey hair all over his head. In addition, not only did he walk with crutches, which he had used during the past two days whenever he went out, but his injured leg had been strapped up behind him on a peg leg with a sling.

  As the Emperor was about to defend France from invasion he had again become a hero, and everyone who was anyone in Paris had come to cheer him on to victory; so the palace was a seething mass of senators, soldiers, officials and their ladies. Slowly Talleyrand and Roger made their way up the grand staircase and into the Throne Room. Napoleon was standing with the Empress on one side of him, and on the other, their fair-haired three-year-old son, the King of Rome, dressed in the uniform of the National Guard.

  When Roger at last came opposite them and awkwardly made his bow, the Emperor exclaimed:

  ‘Why, Breuc, what a pleasant surprise to see you. I thought you lost to us at Leipzig.’

  ‘I thank you, Sire,’ Roger replied in a feeble voice. ‘I got away with my life, but that is about all. My only regret is that neither physically nor mentally am I any longer capable of serving you.’

  Napoleon tweaked his ear, the old familiar gesture of good will. ‘I am the loser, Breuc; but I take the will for the deed. And you should not be here in Paris, but in the sunshine at your little château near St. Maxime, where you used to winter on account of your weak chest.’

  With a murmur of thanks Roger bowed awkwardly again, and passed on, immensely relieved that his pretended inability to be of any use had been accepted.

  When the last of those present had made their bows, the ushers rapped loudly on the parquet for silence. The Emperor then addressed the assembly in a loud, clear voice. He announced that he had appointed the Empress as Regent and his brother, King Jos
eph, Lieutenant General of France. Taking his small son by the hand he went on:

  ‘Gentlemen, I am about to set out for the Army. I entrust to you what I hold dearest in the world—my wife and son. Let there be no political divisions.’ He then lifted the boy on to his shoulder and carried him about among the great dignitaries of the Empire and the officers of the National Guard, to whom he had particularly addressed himself.

  It was a most touching scene. He had not commanded, but appealed to their feelings as human beings. The great chamber rang for minutes on end with applause and fervid protestations of loyalty.

  On leaving Paris the Emperor travelled swiftly eastward to Châlons. Blücher was to the south of him and, he learned, heading further south with the object of joining Schwarzenberg’s Austrians. Napoleon, who throughout this campaign displayed a remarkable recovery in vitality, military genius and swiftness of decision, immediately marched south to prevent the two armies from combining against him. On January 29th, at Brienne—where, as a penniless youth of only the lowest stratum of nobility and speaking French with an atrocious Italian accent, he had been a cadet at the Military Academy—he fell upon the Prussians, driving them from the castle and the town. Blücher retreated toward Bar-sur-Aube and there had the support of Schwarzenberg. On February 1st the Allies attacked with greatly superior numbers. Although the French fought gallantly in a snow storm, endeavouring for eight hours to hold the village of La Rothière, they were outflanked and defeated with a loss of three thousand men and seventy-three cannon—a loss they could ill afford, in view of the hugely superior numbers of the Allies.

  The immense wealth Talleyrand had acquired during his long association with the Emperor enabled him to maintain a small army of couriers. They not, only brought him early news of these battles, but also kept him in communication with Prince Metternich, the Czar and Royalist agents of King Louis XVIII, who was living at Hartwell in England.

  On February 3rd the Emperor entered Troyes and his distress at his defeat was much increased by his reception. Far from cheering him with their old ardour, the inhabitants, already half-starved themselves, sullenly refused to supply his troops with anything. The soldiers, too, were desperately hungry and so cast down that six thousand of them deserted.