by Barney Broom
“Look here – who are you, a mercenary?”
Barney laughed.
“You could say that.”
Sturridge began to move towards Miles Willoughby.
“Put the fuse away, Miles, get on your horse and ride off just like the good little swot you are in class.”
“You’re mad!”
Ignoring Barney, De Willoughby inspected the fuse and taking out a knife, began to cut it. Barney knocked him on the head with a pontoon strut.
Dragging Miles over to the bushes, Barney ran back along the pontoon towards the oncoming Polish.
“Hurry, guys – keep it moving.”
The strange-looking youth gesticulating indicated the bank behind him.
“Chop chop now.”
The Polish soldiers couldn’t understand what Barney was doing there any more than De Willoughby had, but needing little encouragement, they hurried on.
At the Polish-held end, fighting was fierce and Archie was under severe pressure as the Russians pressed home their attack.
It was into this bagarre that Barney arrived. It was lucky that he did. Taking a bad blow, Archie had fallen. Barney managed to pull him away and let the immediate battle pass over them.
Lying prostrate, Archie regained consciousness to discover that he was in Barney’s tender loving care.
“Oh, God. You again.”
Archie felt his head.
“What have I done to deserve this?”
“Taken a bang on the head sir. Common casualty.”
Helping Archie to his feet, Barney was concerned.
“You need to take it easy, sir.”
The relationship Barney had with Archie was particular. The school bully had an odd respect for the computer games creator and similarly, Archie had a perverse fondness for the boy. It was as if both recognised the artificial front each presented to the outside world. However grudging, a kind of mutual understanding existed between them.
Looking around, Archie surveyed the scene. Mercifully, the Russians had withdrawn briefly to regroup but the Polish forces had got across, leaving Barney and himself isolated to fend for themselves.
“Since you’ve been bozo, everyone’s crossed over.”
“Bozo?”
“Out of it; zonked.”
“Your English… Can’t be a lot of teaching going on at that school.”
“Never paid much attention at Wendbury and grammar don’t rate at YOI.”
Archie looked at Barney quizzically.
“Young Offenders.”
“I forgot you were a con.”
Archie scratched his tired body.
“Is that Podric’s common denominator for programming us – we’re all losers?”
“Speak for yerself.”
Small arms fire starting up nearby, musket shots zipped around their ears.
“We’ve got to get across! Where’s my daughter?”
Archie tried to walk but stumbled.
“Taken care of, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that.”
The penny dropped.
“So, where is my business partner?”
“He’s around.”
“But my daughter. I’ve got to find her.”
“Reckon Pod will have that in hand.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“Said he’d do a recce – snout her out.”
“Snout her out?”
Archie’s energy sagged again.
“Education. That’s what you need, young man.”
“If you say so, sir, but just now, a good fight’ll do.”
On the far side of the river, Podric sat in Cosima’s dinghy resting on an oar. The young woman lay asleep on the burden boards and Dog’s panting head rested against the gunwale.
Watching the last Polish soldiers stream ashore, Podric secured the craft nearby. Landing, he discovered a dazed Miles De Willoughby lying in some bushes where Barney had left him.
Turning his attention to the pontoon, Podric watched Barney half carry Archie across the rickety structure. The Russian army behind was beginning to make its way onto it. Podric ducked below and checked the detonating primers.
At his camp a mile or two away, Napoleon’s light chaise was being prepared. Bonaparte was in a remote mood, his mercurial mind preoccupied with affairs of state now much affected by the failure of his Russian campaign.
His bodyguard already mounted and the necessary portmanteau loaded aboard, the emperor made ready to leave. All of a sudden there was an almighty explosion. Clouds of smoke and debris wafted into the sky.
Paying little heed, Napoleon climbed into his coach. Jolting along the track that ran beside the Berezina, the driver noticed a dinghy swirling around. One of its occupants waved a salute. In spite of his orders, the coachman reined in and stopped. About to remonstrate, Napoleon looked out of the window and saw the now-united UAR group aboard the skiff. Standing, Podric’s left arm was above his head, and as Napoleon watched, the boy raised his right hand up to his left wrist.
***
On the evening of 15th June 1815, the ballroom of the Duke and Duchess of Richmond’s residence in Brussels was magnificent. Candelabra shone with brilliance and tapestries were an abundance of exotic voile. The glitterati of European society being present the Coalition’s officer corps were dashing in their resplendent uniforms. They were equally matched by the women, who dazzled amidst toile, brocade and diamonds.
Watching proceedings from the shadows, two young women stood apart. The taller of the two, the Hon Cosima McCorquodale, wore a dress of midnight blue moiré which shimmied against her statuesque figure. The other, Miss Catherine Halliday, looked equally stunning in a claret velvet gown, its slashed plunging V accentuating her décolletage. Several officers showed interest in the two women but made no headway.
A tall man dressed in black and wearing a single order entered and began talking to the Duke of Richmond. Leaving his host and circulating the room, the Duke of Wellington spied the two young ladies and strolled over.
“Mesdames.”
The duke bowed; the ladies curtsied.
“You find the ball uninteresting?”
“Our presence here isn’t celebratory.”
Cosima’s response was cool.
“We know you’re to fight a battle.”
The duke laughed.
“My dear young lady, everyone knows I’m here to fight a battle.”
“But not everyone knows exactly where and at what time – even you.”
Unaccustomed to such attitude, least from a young woman, Wellington was taken aback, though his manners didn’t entirely desert him.
“What possible military knowledge would you possess, ma’am?”
“The knowledge that in a minute or two, an aide to the Prince of Orange will arrive, informing you Prussian forces are in retreat and later, a second message is delivered explaining how Napoleon has stolen a march on you – if you’ll pardon the expression, my lord.”
Wellington had no time to respond as at that moment the mud-splattered figure of Henry Weber entered. After bowing to the Duke of Richmond, he was directed to Wellington.
“I have dispatches, sir.”
The Iron Duke put out his hand. Pulling open his tunic, Weber removed a leather-wrapped note and handed it to Wellington.
“My lords, ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served.”
The major domo’s sonorous tones died away. The Duchess of Devonshire and Lady Frances Webster appeared beside Wellington.
“And remember the second message, sir. You may recall our advising you of it in the hours to come.” Catherine made a small bow and to the surprise of the three nobles, she and Cosima withdrew.
“Who, pray, are they?�
��
Lady Webster was put out. Wellington caught Weber’s eyes following the young beauties admiringly.
“Young women can have lively imaginations.”
“But not the experience.”
Lady Webster’s weighted retort was followed by a smile of intimacy.
“What did she mean by a second message?”
Georgiana Richmond was more astute than her friend.
“I cannot imagine, ma’am, but no doubt all will be revealed if, and when, it appears.”
The drollness of this wasn’t lost on the women, particularly Lady Frances, whose flirtatiousness towards Wellington was evident as she accompanied him into dinner.
28
Waterloo
A mile or two from the village of Waterloo, a farmhouse known as Le Caillou had been taken over by French high command on the eve of battle, requisitioned for the emperor’s headquarters. Having breakfasted in the small hours, Napoleon, dressed in waistcoat and breeches and looking much stouter, sat with his generals who included Count Drouot, Duc De Bassano and commander of the Imperial Guard, Marshal Soult. Masticating his food thoughtfully, Bonaparte pushed aside his plate and studied the maps strewn about beside him.
“The army of the enemy is superior to ours by more than one–fourth. Nevertheless, we have ninety chances in our favour, and ten against us.”
At that moment Marshal Ney entered. Not having had breakfast, he was handed coffee. Napoleon requested his opinion regarding their position.
“Without doubt, sire, you have Wellington cornered. But I must inform you that his retreat is decided and that if you do not hasten to attack, the enemy is about to escape you.”
Napoleon looked up from his maps.
“You are wrong, and it is too late now. Wellington would expose himself to a certain loss. He has thrown the dice and they are in our favour.”
There being much activity in the breakfast room – aides coming and going with dispatches – Ney excused himself, leaving a hesitant Marshal Soult to liaise with the emperor.
“Would it not be beneficial to bring up the right wing, Emperor, by way of reinforcements?”
Interpreting Soult’s suggestion as criticism of his tactics, Napoleon was dismissive. He jumped up and strode about the room.
“Because you have been beaten by Wellington, you consider him a great general. And now I will tell you that he is a bad general and that this affair is nothing more serious than eating one’s breakfast.”
Thus admonished, Soult also withdrew. Bonaparte instructed that his horse Marengo should be saddled and his staff prepare themselves in readiness. The room emptied.
Suddenly quiet, Napoleon stood alone. Scratching his left wrist, he stared out of the window.
“So few of your generals ever carry out orders to your satisfaction. Reckon it’s easier to fight a campaign solo.”
Napoleon smiled and continued to look at the gloomy view. Low clouds scudded across the horizon.
“You are right, Podric, but troop movements, ordnance and supply are different in reality than in your battle electronique.”
“Principle’s the same though. All those things have to be taken into account in order to win.”
Napoleon finally turned to face Podric who stood on the far side of the breakfast table. Dressed in the uniform of a hussar sous-lieutenant, his gangly form was contrastingly still after the bustling bodies of Gallic officers.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Napoleon’s face was much brighter than it had been with his staff.
“Because of the chance to re-write history – at least in the game?”
Napoleon sighed.
“I never thought Wellington much of a general.”
“He beat you though.”
“Pchwa. I’m unwell.”
“That sounds like an excuse. Anyway, I’m not the Iron Duke or whatever he called himself. I’m a computer games champion.”
“… who has an advantage over me.”
Signing a document on the table with his left hand, Bonaparte raised it waving the quill in his fingers.
“Shouldn’t affect any strategy of the great Napoleon. Having been inside Napoleonic Wars recently, you’ll have already reminded yourself of the reasons for your loss. Grouchy not finishing off the Prussians yesterday at Wavre, the delays and foul-ups of your orders.”
Podric finally moved, and leaning forward studied a map of the Waterloo battlefield.
“But if you throw more weight on your right flank and attack Wellington faster, victory can be yours.”
“How do you know I’ve been inside the game?”
It was Podric’s turn to tap his wrist. Napoleon nodded.
“You, a mere boy, giving me advice!”
Podric eyed the emperor coolly.
“Do you actually want to play?”
Napoleon resumed a sulky attitude.
“Do you think even challenging inside it, you’ll really win – or would you rather re-live the battle fought without modern technology…?”
The way Podric spoke suggested he was considering a line of thought.
“To win, Podric. My whole life I have lived to win!”
Still looking at Napoleon, Podric’s gaze suddenly flicked up. Activating the game, Napoleonic Wars flashed into his top vision. With a further depression of his finger, he linked the emperor. The two of them were now participants.
“Wha— I have not activated myself.”
“My being able to do that to you remotely is another element I’ve been working on. Play when you want.”
Podric moved his right index finger quickly over the microchip in his left wrist, raced through ‘Options’ to ‘Campaigns’, then ‘Battles’. Selecting ‘Waterloo’, within the support menu he opted for ‘Troop Deployment’. Caught up watching Podric’s actions, Napoleon hadn’t moved.
A battalion of grenadiers moved into position, taking cover along a tree-lined field on the far side of the road from La Caillou. A musketry fusillade poured into the building. Glass shattered, plaster fell from the ceiling and brick and timber fragments rent the air.
Podric pressed his left wrist again, deactivating Napoleonic Wars. Transfixed, Bonaparte never got started as a player, stunned as he had been by Podric’s sheer speed.
The air clearing, a shattered Bonaparte looked out of the window. There was no sign of Picton’s division or any other British soldiers for that matter.
“That’s what you’re playing with, old man – in my century, using my technology. That’s the game now; that’s my game.”
Napoleon sat down, crumpled. Having experienced seconds of heightened intensity, Podric cleaned out a dust-filled cup and helped himself to some cold coffee from a silver pot.
“Let’s leave the game challenge otherwise I’ll destroy you. But we can experience the battle as it was when you fought it.”
Podric had some cold coffee and grimaced.
“You still have the advantage in the field because you know what went wrong. With that knowledge, you can change the course of events within the battle but do it without using technology.”
Recovering his wits, Napoleon looked at Podric.
“What will you do?”
“That’s my business. But now you’re not playing me, if I fight you, I’ll fight you as one would have in 1815.”
“Why will you do this?”
Podric had another gulp of cold coffee.
“When I invented Ultimate Alternative Reality—”
“With your partner.”
Napoleon cut in. Podric laughed.
“Yes, with my partner… I, we created it to enjoy adventures we otherwise could never experience. UAR has already delivered more than we ever imagined.”
Napoleon stood up and reached for his old bot
tle-green field coat. Podric helped him into it.
“But that wasn’t the real reason you wanted your alternative reality, was it, Podric? You needed to find another life to help you connect with your father.”
It was Podric’s turn to reflect.
“But you won’t find him.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. He’s with me all the time.”
“You can’t bring him back to life though.”
“Why not? I did you.”
“But I’m in a computer game. Are you going to do that to your father?!”
Podric turned to the French emperor.
“You’re partly right about UAR and its origins but it was my dad who first got me into computer games. When I’m existing in this world, I feel his presence intensely.”
“More than in your real life?”
“Yes. He was so wired computer-wise – sometimes when I’m doing things in alternative reality I feel he’s actually with me.”
Napoleon grunted. “Will you let me go when my time comes?”
The twenty-first century computer games champion and the eighteenth-century emperor looked at each other.
“Time enough time to make that call. We’ve a battle to fight first.”
***
For Archie Light, the Battle of Waterloo was proving a miserable experience. Since his Russian adventure as Colonel Swiatto, he had escaped the bear’s clutches in pursuit of his errant daughter and followed her into the Belgian campaign. The idea that Cosima might befriend Podric’s girlfriend Catherine and attend the Duchess of Richmond’s ball had initially surprised him, but on reflection, nothing really did where UAR was concerned. Cosima had been obsessed with experiencing Ultimate Alternative Reality from the moment she knew about it. Given how headstrong she was, Archie knew that this entry would be challenging.
Deciding to participate as part of Wellington’s staff (Archie had never been one to opt for lower ranks) he now rode at the duke’s side as one of his aides. Dog loped along with them. Wellington, mounted on Copenhagen, seemed oblivious to the early morning rain as the group cantered from the village of Waterloo south to Mount St. Jean. Inspecting allied positions, the Duke couldn’t help noticing Dog.
“What’s that animal doing here?”