by Simon Rumney
Robert’s inevitable misgivings started before the back wheels passed through the gates of Kings College.
Sensing Robert’s inner collapse, Nanny spent her remaining time in Cambridge walking with him. Talking as they passed along the riverbank, she loved to hear him talk about Rome. He was so knowledgably, so intelligent.
Sometimes they sat watching boats. Sometimes they skipped stones and sometimes he slept in the sun. Nanny always held Robert when the bad dreams wracked his body. She didn’t know what could possibly generate such violent thoughts in him. It was as though he was remembering someone else’s terrible life.
On the day Robert said farewell to his parents and Miss Parks his mistrust and insecurities returned stronger than ever. Searching for solace, he turned to his well-worn copy of Homer’s Iliad. He always felt connected to the story of Helen’s impetuous journey to Troy, crossing the ocean with her lover Paris. He felt close to the story of Prince Hector, brother of Paris, who had lost his life fighting Achilles on the plains below the high walls of Troy. The passage in which Homer explained how Helen stood beside Hector's slain body felt so familiar. Even Homer’s final two sentences, “These tears of sorrow that I shed are both for you and for my miserable self. No one else is left.” echoed Robert's fragile existence perfectly.
As bad luck would have it, fate chose the week after Julia’s departure to trigger the ailment which had been lying dormant in Robert’s lungs since birth. It was a very dry summer; the air was unusually full of dust and pollens, and during the morning row Robert broke down at his oar.
Supported by his fellow rowers he lay in the bottom of the eight gasping for the breath that would not fill his burning lungs. Robert felt like he was drowning in fresh air.
After rowing to the bank, Robert’s teammates carried him to the nearest college on a makeshift stretcher made of oars and jackets. There, he passed out.
After days of convalescing the eminent professors of medicine informed Robert that he was suffering from a malady known as asthma.
Unfortunately, this was one of those diseases which gave no outward signs of its existence. It could not be treated by bleeding or leeches so in their usually appalling bedside manner proceeded to tell him that it was all in the mind. “Psychosomatic,” they said without a thought for the effect their words would have on a mentally fragile patient.
“What can I do about it?” asked Robert very confused and fearing for his sanity.
“Absolutely nothing, except snap out of it,” replied one of the professors as he left the sad boy alone to deal with his mental and physical turmoil.
Believing that he may be going mad, Robert tried every kind of thought process to remove his affliction but, of course, it was a real and very serious illness which could not be changed by any amount of mind games. The professors were wrong but not malicious, simply victims of the thinking of their time, and like all experts could not even consider an alternative to the accepted diagnosis.
Because of his inability to breathe Robert could no longer do the things which gave him self-worth and the speed of his decline was terrible. He tried to row but could manage nothing more than a slow paddle before breaking down again.
Self-doubt occupied Robert as he wondered what else in his life was psychosomatic. Were his feelings for Julia like his asthma? Did love really exist or was he imagining it? Even the love letters she sent every day could not improve his mental state. Robert read her words with great hope but shortly after reading them the nagging doubt about their sincerity returned.
It was while locked in the mental battle caused by his apparently self-imposed ill health and his dichotomous hatred of women with his love for Julia that Robert read the news that tipped him over the edge.
The devastating news of Miss Parks’s death left Robert completely disillusioned and depressed with the life that seemed so full of hope such a short time before. He muddled through as best he could but nothing brought him out of his mournfulness.
The things that interested him before now seemed mundane and boring. He drifted into the role of a drunken womanizer for no reason that any of his friends or masters could understand. He rarely turned up for rowing practice and never attended lectures.
Discarding responsibility completely Robert began living from one day to the next. Incredibly a life that had seemed so promising now appeared so completely ruined and not even Robert understood the forces that were tearing him apart. In the year of 1812 the Deans of Kings College became completely fed up with Robert’s drunken antics and his expulsion became inevitable.
One Monday morning, after a very big weekend on the town, they asked him to leave before they were forced to send him down. Robert was not in any way surprised by their request as he had been expecting it for some time and without giving it any deep thought Robert simply enlisted as a lieutenant in the army bound for America.
His parents, Julia and her parents were all devastated by the news of his hurried departure. They did not have a chance to try and talk him out of his rash decision because he had, in a very cowardly way, left it up to Mr Woods to tell them that he had gone.
Julia never received a reply to any of her letters and spent her time in deep and constant pain. She loved Robert so completely and found it hard to believe that the wonderful young man she fell for at Cambridge could treat her in such a callous manner.
The ever-reliable Anton watched his friends decline with great sadness. He spent days talking with Robert in his study trying to break the spell that had fallen so completely over him but nothing could lift Robert from his depression and the decline of such a wonderful person broke Anton’s heart.
At the moment Robert left Cambridge to join his ship and his destiny Anton handed him a sealed envelope saying as he wept tears of frustration and injustice: “Here is the address of my family. Come to Rome one day, when Napoleon is defeated.”
America
Robert would have preferred to do his fighting against the French but Napoleon had foolishly thrown his Grand Army away in the Russian snow. The war in the European theatre was very unlikely to continue much longer. As coincidence would have it Admiral Nelson’s destruction of the French fleet in 1805 had given the British navy complete control of the oceans and the power won at Trafalgar was being used to blockade the American colonies. Angered by their inability to trade freely, the Americans declared war on the British for a second time.
Robert liked the idea of reversing the outcome of the War of Independence, so he signed up for the chance of a good fight across the Atlantic.
Taking a public carriage service north to Liverpool, Robert spent a week in the taverns near the docks waiting for his ship to depart. There he sat each day drinking wine while spontaneously striking up conversations with seamen of all nationalities. It was as though an instinct compelled him to ask questions whenever he sat near a sailor, and this urge to find out about the things they carried across the sea could not be contained.
As long as he paid for their ale these men were happy to answer questions about the cargoes their ships carried, where things were bought and sold, and how long various sea crossings took. Everything about this activity felt completely familiar, even the smells within the strange taverns were remembered somewhere deep in Robert’s core.
When his ship eventually sailed Robert experienced even more profound feelings of déjà vu during the voyage. It was as though he had made such a journey before. All of the ship’s noises were known to him, even the motion of the vessel under his feet inspired memories, but the most peculiar thing of all was the vivid memory of making this crossing with Julia. Robert knew that the recollection was impossible because neither he nor Julia had ever been out of England in their lives.
Even though there were breathless days, Robert never let asthma get in the way of doing his duty and from the moment of his very first battle Robert fought like a natural soldier. Seemingly fearless his brilliant understanding of tactics guaranteed him many mentions in disp
atches.
He was known by all as an extremely hard but fair fighter who stood in the line with his redcoats to receive the volley fire which killed hundreds of them. All around him men were hit by hot musket balls as they walked across the battle fields toward the American positions, but nothing even grazed Robert.
Still unable to commit suicide because of the shame this cowardly act would bring to the Pishiobury name, Robert was determined to die in battle with honor and often ran ahead of his men to present a better target to the enemy. This course of action had a strangely positive effect on the battle because the common soldiers had grown to love their Captain, and his death wish merely spurred the men to keep up with him.
The Americans knew that the British always walked into battle, and they were unprepared for such radical tactics, which resulted in many confrontations being won by the element of surprise.
Consequently, Robert earned the nickname Mad Bob and his life-threatening antics became legendary during his thirty months in the American colonies.
At the end of the war, which the British lost to the Americans completely for a second time, Robert and his fellow officers were taken prisoner and put on trial for the many British atrocities. As bad luck would have it, he stood out as one of the few British officers who did not condone war crimes. The Americans knew that he had punished his soldiers if they performed acts of savagery and their testimony caused him to miss out on the chance of a quick death at the end of a rope.
Depressed by his inability to end his grief, Robert traveled up into Canada with the idea of fighting in the Indian wars.
While he waited for his regiment to regroup for the march inland, Robert spent many weeks drinking and fighting with the French trappers who resented the British imperial claim on Canada.
He rapidly gained a reputation as a good bare-knuckle pugilist who made money for his drinking by holding boxing matches with the trappers who had recently sold their beaver pelts. The fights went on until one or other could no longer stand and Robert won most of the time. This was not the sort of life that most well-to-do young men would choose but Robert reconciled himself to his existence, because the physical pain of boxing distracted him from the mental pain of living.
There can be no doubt that Robert was rescued from an ignoble end by the recruiting officer for the 92nd Gordon Highlanders who noticed him during a particularly bloody fight. The big bearded man dressed in his kilt helped clean Robert’s cuts as he told of Napoleon’s escape from the island of Elba, and this information acted as a catalyst which propelled Robert to changed his plans and book his passage to Europe.
The first ship he could find out of Quebec was bound for the port of Harwich on the south coast of England. After an uneventful but hauntingly familiar passage, his vessel came alongside at the deep harbor port, which also happened to be the old home of Nelson’s fleet. Robert was just one day’s ride from Pishiobury but didn’t give a thought to returning home to see his parents. He loved them of course but he believed that they would no longer love him, how could they? After all of the terrible things he had done at Cambridge?
Once on shore Robert found a packet boat loaded and ready to leave for Belgium on the high tide. Handing over a few silver coins from his army pay he was able to board immediately. Many of his fellow passengers on the small sailing ship were bound for the impending battle with Bonaparte but apart from saluting his superior officers Robert made no contact with any of them. After a clear night of sailing, land came into view on the morning of the sixteenth of June. Ostend harbor was uneventfully entered and the crew made the ship fast to the bollards on the quayside.
While the spring lines were being attached, the harbor master informed the Captain that Napoleon’s army had crossed from France into Belgium during the morning of the previous day. Not waiting for a gangplank Robert swung ashore on a line which hung from a yardarm and set immediately about purchasing a horse. Fearing he may miss his last chance for a glorious death in battle against the French, Robert desperately needed to find Wellington’s army before it was all over.
The passengers on the ship watched him bartering urgently with any rider who came by. Eventually a man passing on a very old grey was game enough to accept Robert’s extravagant offer of a full bag of silver pieces. Everyone lining the gunnels of the packet wondered what had caused the obvious sadness that seemed to surround the good-looking young man.
Driving the old horse onwards Robert rode in the direction of the city of Bruxelles at a gallop. He was tempted to stop for food and rest at the town of Ghent because he was tired after so much traveling but the thought of his final battle pushed him on. In the capital of this most strange county Robert’s exhaustion forced him to take shelter and food at an inn for the night. Much to his surprise the local people looked upon him with the same derision as the American civilians. They appeared to be more on the side of the French than the English and their looks of dissent reminding Robert of the angry population in the small towns in that faraway country.
When he left the inn during the late morning of the seventeenth, news of a battle began to filter into the streets. Fighting had taken place at a crossroads by the name of Quatre Bras. Robert used his limited French to ask the locals for directions to the place but none of them had ever heard of it. He wasted valuable time trying to find a relevant map and by midday he was on his way to join the army.
Riding south, Robert found signs that the British Army had recently passed in the same direction. Just like America, every field was stripped bare and all livestock butchered to feed the hungry regiments. No farmhouse or tavern had any food to sell because the British army had requisitioned it all for their march across the country and the looks of contempt for his worn-out British uniform were unmistakable.
The sun was passing from view as he and his completely blown horse staggered into an unknown small town. Everywhere he looked there were units of the British military making themselves busy.
A Sergeant stood by the side of the road and Robert asked, “Have I missed the battle?”
“No Sir we had a bit of a go with the Froggies yesterday but it looks like the big one will be on tomorrow.”
“Excellent!”
The look on the Sergeant’s face clearly showed that he could never understand the bravado of young gentleman officers and the reply from the one sitting on top of the horse that was ready for the knacker’s yard confirmed his belief that they were all bloody mad.
Realizing that he would never find his new regiment in the dark Robert decided to sleep half a mile south of the little town the Sergeant referred to as Waterloo.
Duke of Wellington
Lifting his head from the hard saddle lying on the grass by the side of the dirt lane, Robert looked around him. Everywhere men in red coats were moving ordinance of every kind and he sensed that this day would bring the big battle that would end his constant misery.
The old grey gelding, which had never worked harder in its life, lay dead beside him and he was filled with a mixture of pity and envy. As Robert kneeled at the side of the horse to say a few words of thanks in a prayer he heard a very familiar voice behind him.
“Good Lord! That’s Pishiobury’s boy, what?”
Standing, Robert looked up at the man sitting astride his horse. “Good morning Sir.”
Arthur Wellesley smiled, “I had no idea you were here Pishiobury. I heard you were fighting in the Americas, what? If I had known I would have had you billeted properly, what? What?”
“May I congratulate you on your title, Sir?”
“Thank you Pishiobury. The First Duke of Wellington, sounds quite good, what?” Wellesley chuckled, “Who are you with?”
“The 92nd Gordon Highlanders, Sir.”
“Well done, good regiment, what? Come along with us, I can help you find them, what? What?”
“I have no horse Sir,” said Robert casting his eyes down to the grey by way of explanation.
“That will not present a prob
lem.” The Duke turned to his orderly, “You there, get Pishiobury a horse, there’s a good fellow.”
During the short wait for the horse to arrive the Duke asked, “How did things go for you in America, what?”
“Not very well Sir. They fought extremely aggressively.”
“Ungrateful people those bloody Americans. If it wasn’t for us they wouldn’t be there in the first place, what? What?”
At the end of a short but conversation-filled journey their horses came to a stop on the brow of a hill. Standing above the field at Mont St Jean they could clearly see the British army sprawled out across a plateau just below them. The regiments denoted by their distinctive standards were drying themselves in the early morning sun after spending the night lying in the mud made wet by a summer downpour.
“Although they looked dirty and disheveled they are at least rested after a night’s sleep,” said Wellington with a tone of genuine concern.
Whilst acknowledging the cheers of his men Wellington pointed and said to Robert. “Your regiment is directly in front of us, look there just before the lip on the flat area in the center of the field.” Turning to look at Robert the Duke added in a somber tone. “That lip is going to be the telling factor in today’s battle. I looked long and hard for such a configuration and now we have Bonaparte in the right place we will see how it works, what? Please give my fondest regards to General Somerset, what? What?”
Wellington was in no way compelled to give Robert an introduction to his new Commanding Officer and he knew that such a greeting from the Commander in Chief would stand him in very good stead. Wellesley’s kindness provoked fond memories of his childhood on the Pishiobury estate as Robert cantered towards his new regiment and his fate.
From the high ground Robert could make out three heavily fortified farm buildings in the depression below the lip, which formed the shallow valley of no man’s land below. Noticing the Union Jacks flying from their roofs Robert envied the British soldiers who were clearly going to be taking some very heavy losses while defending them. Looking beyond the British flags, Robert saw the Grand Army which had been tugging at his destiny since childhood. Grasping the enormity of Napoleon’s forces Robert relaxed, this is it, he thought, no more pain and confusion, it all ends today.