‘And you?’ said Ross.
‘I shall ride to Namur, where I have two royalist friends. They have a direct contact with one of Napoleon’s generals. What information I bring back I will ask you to carry to Wellington’s headquarters – wherever they may be by then. It will be a dangerous mission but that is what you tell me you wish to do.’
‘You ride as far as Namur in daylight?’
‘Three hours each way. The French army will have other matters on its hands. But if I should be captured you will know from my non-return. Then fend for yourself. Marcel or Julius will be somewhere at hand. There’ll be food for you to eat and some to carry with you. You will have a fair horse before dark.’
‘And when can I be sure you will not turn up?’
‘Give me till the moon sets.’
‘I do not fancy such a long inactivity,’ Ross said. ‘Is there nothing I can do here, or in the vicinity?’
‘How good is your French? Heavily accented, isn’t it? You would be of much greater service by accepting the inactivity. Lie down. Take a sleep, man. There will be plenty of activity for you later on.’
IV
It was a hot sultry day and time passed slowly. Marcel and Julius soon left and Ross was alone with his pony. For the most part he stayed in the barn. The roof anyway was part in ruin, and the sun fell in strips across a floor well grown with weeds relishing the light. His pony cropped in a corner. Twice when he pushed the door ajar he thought he could hear distant cannon-fire.
He wondered if Demelza were still in London. He had received one letter only from her; then she had been staying in his old rooms and intending to remain there a few weeks. By now she would surely be safely home in Cornwall, together with the stout-hearted Mrs Kemp, the precocious Bella and the imperturbable Harry. Jeremy was another matter. He must be involved in this battle which was about to take place. He had been in the army twelve months but had not seen any serious fighting. As a relatively untried ensign he might well be among the reserves. The wonderful veteran army of the Peninsula would bear the brunt.
But Grant had said Wellington desperately lacked seasoned troops; at the most ten thousand were his old comrades in arms who had driven the French out of Spain. Many even of the other English in his makeshift army were untried youths. It was a matter of luck where Jeremy was and how he fared. There was no virtue in comforting oneself with false hopes. The real comfort was to remember all the bloody battles Geoffrey Charles had survived – almost all the bitterest fighting of the Peninsular War – before he married and retired safely on half-pay. God, what a prospect if Bonaparte won this battle! Belgium would be his; the Alliance against him would break up; Austria, to avoid being crushed, would return the Empress and their son; even Spain might again be invaded. Had England the stomach for another long war?
Had it even the stomach to solve its own domestic problems? The two copies of The Times he had received had given him a fair sample of the feeling of the House when it was debating the Corn Bill. He should have been there, making his angry protest, instead of allowing himself to become a useless pawn in the international game.
And his other child, Clowance; she was safe enough in Penryn. But, try as he might, Ross could not bring himself actually to become fond of his son-in-law. There was something meretricious about his bounding energy and good spirits; he was so open and outgoing in his behaviour that one never got near enough to him to know him any better. But Clowance did; presumably she saw him more clearly than most, perceived the real sincerity that his slightly sham sincerity served to hide. Of course the sexual lure could distort a woman’s view; yet Clowance was a very blunt and honest person and it was unlikely she would marry someone without genuine virtues.
One expected too much. It was natural that fathers-in-law and sons-in-law should have a mild antipathy. Did he feel differently about his daughter-in-law? In the year just gone, when Jeremy had been made so outrageously unhappy by her betrothal to Valentine Warleggan, he had felt the strongest possible dislike for the girl and all her feeble Trevanion clan. When the engagement was broken – by Valentine not by her! – it was he, Ross, who had advised Jeremy to go to Caerhays Castle and more or less help himself to the girl; grab her, take her off, make up her silly indecisive mind for her; and Jeremy had done just this, with the most brilliant of results. Even so, Ross had some ambivalent feelings about the reliability of his daughter-in-law.
At least she had conquered Demelza. Demelza had written how good and charming she had been during her stay in Brussels. And she was with child. Well, he supposed it was time he was a grandfather!
He must have slept for quite a time, for the day was nearly spent when he rolled over in the straw and sat up to see a man in the doorway.
When he came out of the bright light of the slanting sun Ross saw it was André. He was holding his hand to his ragged arm, and there was blood on his hand.
He sagged and came in and sank in a chair and said something Ross did not understand.
‘Can you speak French?’ Ross asked, getting to his feet.
‘Where is Colonel Grant?’
‘Gone to Namur. He should be back soon. You are wounded?’
‘It is nothing. A musket ball. They are flying very fast out there, and you are lucky if you do not collect one or two even though they are meant for someone else. Have you water?’
Ross took a flask across to him. There was not much in it, and André drained it.
‘You delivered the message? You were on the way back?’
André looked at him sidelong. ‘It is time Colonel Grant is back?’
‘No doubt. But we must wait. Let me see the wound.’
The sleeve was slit anyhow and easily moved up to show the blood oozing from an ugly hole above the elbow.
Ross said: ‘Is there water nearby?’
‘There is a stream. Turn left out of the barn. But I do not think you need to bother. I have seen many in a very much worse condition today.’
When Ross came back with the flask full he found the thin man sprawled with closed eyes against the side of the chair. He opened them when Ross bathed the wound and wrapped it tightly with a piece of cloth.
‘I am not mortally hurt,’ said André. ‘But I have lost much blood. I think I may faint.’
Ross brought him a cup of wine; he was able to sip it; his eyes were flickering.
‘Bring my horse in here – else he may be seen.’
Ross did this, and unsaddled the animal, which was slippery with sweat, foam flecking from his mouth. When he went back to André his eyes were shut and he was breathing heavily. He stood beside him for a few minutes and then went to sit in his chair, ate a few mouthfuls of the bread and sausage, which was all he had left.
Presently the man said: ‘Monsieur.’
Ross went instantly back.
‘Monsieur, in case the Colonel Grant should be a long time and I have gone unconscious – or perhaps if Colonel Grant should not come back, I must tell you I have not delivered the message.’
‘What? Were you wounded and unable to get through?’
‘No, no.’ André paused for breath. ‘I arrived behind the English positions and was arrested by . . . a cavalry patrol. I was identified and told them I had . . . important message for the Commander-in-Chief. Was taken – I was taken at once to the Brigade Commander, General Dornberg, who . . . who took it upon himself to open the message I carried. Thereupon he kept me for some hours . . . and then returned the message saying Colonel Grant was . . . was wrong in his conclusions and said he was certain the main – main attack would still be towards Mons.’
Ross brought back the cup of wine and helped André drink some. As he did so there was a footstep and he quickly turned, aware that he only had a knife within reach. But even in the semi-darkness Grant’s stiff figure was recognizable.
He came over and stood in front of André. The man tried to struggle into a sitting position.
‘M le Colonel—’
; ‘I heard,’ said Grant. And then: ‘Where is the message?’
André indicated an inner pocket of his jacket. Ross felt inside and pulled out the letter, on which the seal was broken.
Grant took the letter and held it between finger and thumb. ‘Dornberg! God damn the man! May the devil have mercy on him, for I should not!’
‘Dornberg?’ said Ross. ‘A Prussian?’
‘A Hanoverian! Like our royal family! Major-General Sir William Dornberg is in command of the 1st and 2nd Light Dragoons of the King’s German Legion. Some of our finest troops! He fought for Napoleon until two years ago, when he changed sides! It all smacks of treachery . . .’ Grant thumped one hand into the other and tramped about the barn. ‘But more likely it just smacks of bungling incompetence. Wellington, in my view mistakenly, gave this fool the responsibility for transmitting to Brussels the reports of the various agents as they came in. He has grossly exceeded his duty by attempting to judge the value of the reports for himself! My God, this might turn the course of the battle! The man should be court-martialled and shot!’ Grant turned to the wounded Belgian. ‘Are you sure General Dornberg did not pass on the report in any letter of his own?’
‘That I do not know, mon colonel. But the view he expressed in my hearing was that your report only went to prove that the present . . . present attack . . . was a feint.’
Grant swore under his breath again and again. Ross could see his whipcord figure trembling with anger.
‘Where are Marcel and Julius? They were bringing a horse for Captain Poldark.’
‘They said at sunset, mon colonel. They should be here . . . at any time.’
‘I will take the report myself,’ said Grant. ‘It will be late, but not perhaps too late to be of value. André, which way did you go?’
‘Through Fontaine l’Evêque and then I struck north. I was trying . . . to avoid the troop concentrations.’
‘Would I run into trouble if I went via Gosselies and Frasnes?’
‘There is so much movement. At night you might be able to thread a way through.’
‘The damned moon is growing.’ Grant opened his bag and took out some bread, a cooked chicken, peaches. ‘Eat some of this, Poldark. I have no doubt you have been on short commons all day.’
‘Why do you not let me take the letter?’ Ross suggested.
Grant appeared to consider, then shook his head. ‘No. It is a good thought but I must go myself. Unless I personally put this into the hands of the Duke I shall not rest easy. Perhaps I should have gone this morning; but there was more here for me to do, and I did not in all faith believe that one bungling fool could put everything at risk.’
‘I shall have the only fresh horse,’ said Ross.
Again Grant shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, no, Poldark, but I must take it. If you give my mare or André’s horse the night to recover you can take one of them. They are excellent beasts. Follow me tomorrow night, or make for the coast.’
‘I’m sorry, Grant,’ Ross said in his turn. ‘Having come this far, I am not to be disposed of like some inconvenient parcel. You are in authority and I cannot stop you taking my horse. The horses outside are spent, but my little pony which has brought me all this way has been resting all day. I can travel on that.’
Grant tore off a drumstick and began to eat it. Then he nodded. ‘So be it. Look, if you want it that way, you shall take the letter, by God. That is what you suggested, isn’t it? I need no letter. I shall report direct to Wellington or not at all. I shall go on the faster mount, but if I am unlucky and am captured or killed, you may bear him the original message, for what good it may do any of us now.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ross.
‘Hush,’ said André, stirring. ‘That is Marcel. I know his footstep.’
Chapter Twelve
I
One of the results of Jeremy’s recent promotion was that most of the men in his company were strangers to him.
There were about forty seasoned soldiers, most of them campaigners from the Peninsular War, among them the quartermaster sergeant, a rough, tough Welshman called Evans, known as Quack Evans, because he strutted like a duck. Jeremy felt he was much on trial; such men, uncouth and uneducated though they were, knew far more about war than he would ever know. Most of the other men were new recruits, country lads, gaolbirds, poachers, debtors, anyone who would take the King’s shilling – or had been tricked into it – whose main awareness of the world was that life was nasty, brutish and short. John Peters, the farmer’s son from Wiltshire, who was still an ensign, had been transferred with Jeremy, and Jeremy’s batman, John Sanders, had been with him six months. His two lieutenants were called Bates and Underwood. Bates was from Lincolnshire, and he had known him at the Forties Club. Underwood was a stranger.
Braine-le-Comte was a pretty village, but by the time Jeremy and his company arrived there it was crowded with Hanoverian troops and their baggage wagons, whom they had to thread and almost fight a way through. At the other side there was a steep climb to some foothills, and guns were being hauled up there; hussars and dragoons were getting in each other’s way, in a picture of such disorganization that Jeremy thought it unlikely he would ever find the Major Cartaret to whom he was supposed to report. Jeremy had ridden all the way on the ungainly but reliable piebald horse Santa, which he had bought in Willemstad last December, it being the practice for officers of infantry regiments to be mounted; but most of his troops were fagged out with the long march in the heat of the day, burdened as they each were with a haversack, a musket and bayonet and a hundred and twenty rounds of ball cartridge. In the way of British soldiers, they brightened noticeably when the sound of gunfire got closer. Presently, almost to everyone’s surprise, Major Cartaret appeared, a slim, dapper man, and called Jeremy to him, explaining that they must make for Nivelles. This, it seemed, was where most of the firing was coming from and was about four miles away.
They reached Nivelles, a small town this, and beyond it a battle was taking place in the lush countryside, cannons thundering over the rye and the wheat, musketry crackling, clouds of smoke darkening the sky, soldiers moving here and there, the wounded staggering back towards the town. But this did not dissuade the townsfolk from standing in the doorways or crowding at open windows, watching and staring, some trembling and huddled together, but others cheering excitedly as at a fireworks display. On the outskirts of the town was a tree-lined square, and this was like a clearing station for the wounded. They lay everywhere, the dead and the dying together – two priests trying to comfort and help, some quite elegant ladies; and the wounded helping each other; one with a foot wound squatting and tying up the stump of a man without a hand, most of them ghastly from loss of blood, some crying out, many frightened at the thought that they were going to die for lack of medical help.
Jeremy still did not like the sight of blood, but he led the way forward. Then the road in front of him was suddenly full of soldiers coming the wrong way. A few were wounded but most seemed to be simply following a herd instinct to escape. It was a Belgian regiment and they shouted at Jeremy’s company: ‘Tout est perdu! Les Anglais sont vaincus! Tout est fini!’ It took ten minutes for them to rush past and then the road ahead was suddenly ominously empty. An occasional shell burst overhead and there was the intermittent crack of muskets.
After issuing his orders Major Cartaret had galloped off and had not been seen since. By the time they had gone another mile the sun was low in the sky, peering sidelong among the cumbrous trees. The wheels of a carriage behind rattling on the pavé, just room for it to get past, going ahead of them; in it was a single Guards officer, his coat unbuttoned, snuff-box in hand. He took no notice of the company of tramping soldiers nor of the mounted officers in the van. He was presumably on his way to fight the French.
Sight of him seemed to revive the tired men, and enabled Jeremy to have the strength of mind to keep them moving when they came to another hamlet where a large estaminet was surrounded by soldiers of a
ll races taking their ease. Through the open windows you could see the rooms crowded with men, talking and arguing and smoking and drinking, and they were sprawled about outside too among their tired horses, drinking, resting, eating.
Once out of sight and sound of this relaxation, Jeremy called a halt. Two food wagons were brought from the back of the column and rations were handed round. It was time the men had a break, past time. They had marched far enough today, but his orders were so vague that he had little idea what to do next. There was still gunfire over the hill. It was no place to linger, this, for they were exposed on two sides, and there was little natural cover. Nor was there a stream, as there had been a mile or so back, where the men could refill their water bottles. He did not want to push on too far and blunder into the French.
The guardsman in the cabriolet had clearly had no such apprehensions.
John Peters came up and squatted beside him.
‘Permission to speak, sir,’ he said with a grin.
‘So long as it’s sensible, John. I know you’d rather be back in Brussels with Marita.’
‘Well, this grub’s not quite up to La Belle Epoque.’
‘What are the lads saying?’ Jeremy asked. ‘That we should have stopped by the estaminet?’
‘One or two rolled an eye, I can tell you. But by and large, them having marched so far today, they’d like to see a bit of fighting before the day’s out. You’ve got a tough lot, Jeremy, and they don’t like to see men running away.’
‘The day is nearly out,’ Jeremy said, squinting at the last glints of the sun. ‘Well, I’ll give ’em another fifteen minutes and then we’ll move on.’
The fifteen minutes was almost up when a horseman came galloping over the hill from the direction of the fighting. He reined in before Jeremy but did not dismount.
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