The Danish ships had, in addition to their own armaments, the protection of their shore batteries; so Nelson’s squadron had had to face the fire of no fewer than seven hundred guns. A murderous cannonade had ensued and there had come a time when it seemed that the British were receiving such terrible punishment that they must be totally destroyed.
Observing the progress of the action through his telescope, Sir Hyde Parker had signalled Nelson to break off the battle. It was then that Nelson put his telescope to his blind eye, said he could not see the signal and had one hoisted that his Captains were to engage the enemy more closely. Their personal attachment to him led to their ignoring the senior Admiral’s signal and obeying his.
Shortly afterwards the fire from the Danish ships began to waver. Anxious to spare the many wounded in the Danish vessels, and refrain from inflicting further loss on a people that his own policy would have left unharmed, Nelson proposed that firing should cease on condition that the Danes acknowledge him to be the victor. A truce was called, he took possession of the Danish fleet, and on April 9th the Danes agreed to a suspension of hostilities.
By mid-April Alexander had sufficiently recovered from the shock and horror of his father’s death to attend to business. Count Pahlen presented Roger to him again, this time as the official envoy of Great Britain. Under the tuition of the Swiss, Colonel le Harpe, the young Czar had acquired a most liberal outlook, and cherished great ideals for the improvement of the condition of the masses. But he believed Bonaparte to be a menace to the peace and well-being of Europe and, headed by Pahlen, Panin and Vorontzoff, the anti-French party was now paramount in his Councils. In consequence he received Roger graciously and informed him that he was agreeable to negotiating a peace with England.
Count Pahlen arranged for a despatch containing this good news to be sent by Roger to Lord Grenville and, by the same vessel, sent instructions to Count Simon Vorontzoff, whom Paul I had suspended on his refusal to return to Russia, to resume his duties and enter into pour-parlers with the Court of St. James.
From the time of Paul’s death onward Roger had remained as Count Pahlen’s guest in his St. Petersburg mansion. During the past few weeks he had made many new friends and had been entertained with lavish Russian hospitality. Spring had come, the snows had melted, the trees were putting out young green leaves and he was thoroughly enjoying himself so, although his mission had been accomplished, and in an unexpectedly horrible manner, he saw no reason to terminate his visit to the Russian capital for some time to come.
In any case he did not plan to go back to England, as it remained his intention to make a career for himself in France. He felt reasonably certain that if Bonaparte’s projected expedition to India sailed at all, it would do so in the Spring; so if he returned to Paris in June he would have escaped any danger of being sent with it; and by then he hoped that Bonaparte would have found some other useful employment for him.
Then in mid-May he received one of the worst shocks of his life. He was attending a levee at the palace and conversing gaily with the young Baroness Zukinski, whom he found decidedly attractive, when Muriavieff tapped him on the shoulder and said with a mischievous grin, ‘Monsieur, I am sure you will be delighted to make the acquaintance of the French emissary that the First Consul has sent to congratulate His Imperial Majesty on his accession.’
Turning on his heel Roger found himself staring at a stalwart, handsome man, whose jaw dropped with surprise at seeing him. It was his old friend Duroc, whom he had known in Italy, gone duck shooting with in Egypt, shared a tent with in Syria and dined with a score of times in Paris. They knew one another as intimately as though they had been brothers. For Duroc to have found him out to be an Englishman meant the end to all his plans for making a career in France.
10
The Alibi
With commendable presence of mind Roger made a low bow that enabled him to control his features before again looking Duroc in the face. Having returned his bow, the Frenchman said with a smile, ‘Mon cher ami, what a surprise! You are the last person I should have expected to meet in St. Petersburg.’
Roger’s expression remained blank as he replied, ‘Monsieur, I fail to understand you, since you are a stranger to me.’ Most fortunately, during his stay in the Russian capital he had for much the greater part of the time used German or English; so his having replied in French, but with an atrocious accent, caused no surprise to Muriavieff or the little Baroness.
Duroc stared at him wide-eyed, ‘But surely you must be Le Colonel Breuc? He … you … We have been together on a thousand occasions. I could not possibly be mistaken.’
‘Unquestionably, Monsieur, that is the case,’ Roger smiled, now throwing himself with all the acting ability he could command into playing a part that might save the situation. ‘I can, though, account for your error. You have mistaken me for my French cousin who was born in Strasbourg. We are of the same age and in our teens we were said to be as like as two peas. It seems that our close resemblance has continued.’
That explanation had been accepted on several previous occasions; but none of the chance acquaintances who had taken Roger Brook for Colonel Breuc, or vice-versa, had known him as intimately as Bonaparte’s A.D.C.-in-Chief. Without calling him a liar, Duroc could not contest his statement; so with another bow the Frenchman said suavely, ‘Please accept my apologies, Monsieur, for having addressed you with such familiarity.’ But as he turned away Roger saw clearly in his eyes puzzlement and doubt.
Concealing his agitation with an effort, Roger continued his flirtation with the pretty Baroness, but his mind was no longer on persuading her to grant him an assignation. It was ninety per cent engaged in endeavouring to devise a means by which he could allay Duroc’s suspicions. Should he fail to do so, it would be highly dangerous for him to return to France. It was certain that Duroc would shortly learn that he was an agent of the British Government, and Duroc was very far from being a fool. There could be little doubt that the extraordinary resemblance between Roger and ‘Le brave Breuc’ would lead him, on his return to Paris, to set enquiries on foot. Once the secret police had checked up that while Roger was supposed to be at his little château in the south of France he had not, at that time and on numerous previous occasions, been there at all, the fat would be in the fire. The double life he had led would be exposed and if he were caught he would find himself facing a firing squad.
Within a matter of minutes he had decided that either he dare not return to France, or he must provide himself, in the role of Colonel Breuc, with an alibi. To achieve the latter it seemed there was only one way. He must reappear in Paris so soon that no-one there would believe that he could possibly have been in St. Petersburg at the time of Duroc’s arrival in the Russian capital.
For another hour or more he moved gracefully among the throng exchanging platitudes or witticisms with a number of his acquaintances but, all the while, keeping an eye on Count Pahlen. When the young Czar had withdrawn and the Minister left the grand salon Roger followed him downstairs and asked him to give him a lift in his carriage.
As the carriage moved off Roger said gravely, ‘Your Excellency; by secret channels, into which we need not enter, I have tonight received a communication from England. It informs me that my wife has had a serious accident. In the circumstances you will appreciate that I wish to return home with the utmost possible speed, and I beg Your Excellency to assist me in so doing.’
The Minister at once expressed his sympathy and willingness to help, and they discussed the swiftest means by which Roger could make his journey. St. Petersburg was now ice-free, so if a ship was shortly about to sail it should carry him down to Copenhagen more swiftly than he could reach a German North Sea port by road. As against that, to take a ship was always to gamble with the weather—unfavourable winds might cause as much as a week’s delay, and the roads were no longer deep in snow. Moreover, although Roger could not disclose the fact, Paris was his real goal so he meant to head, not for eas
tern, but for western Germany.
By the time they reached the Pahlen mansion it had been decided that Roger should travel in a coach, in which he could sleep, and that everything possible should be done to expedite his journey.
Among the numerous offices the Count held was that of Minister of Posts, so he had no need to seek the assistance of a colleague. While Roger packed, all the arrangements were made. Outriders were to be sent ahead of him to ensure relays of horses being in readiness; a sotnia of Cossacks was to accompany him as protection against the possibility of his being held up by bandits and, finally, the Count provided him with a document stating that he was travelling on the Czar’s business which, as long as he was on Russian soil, would give him priority over all other travellers. Having expressed his heartfelt thanks to the Count, he left St. Petersburg in the early hours of the morning of May 25th on his seventeen-hundred-mile journey.
For travelling fast he had one great thing in his favour. Along two-thirds of the way, until he entered Germany, the highway would be almost flat; so there would be no infuriating delays while the horses were walked up hills or down steep declivities. A team of six drew his coach and for long stretches across the boundless steppes and through silent forests of fir and larch they maintained a steady trot.
Even so, the journey seemed endless and was broken only at small towns, to change the horses, renew the stock of cold food with which Count Pahlen had furnished him, and stretch his legs for a quarter of an hour. The Cossacks who formed his escort were hardy, bearded men and their tough little ponies seemed tireless. At times they galloped on for a mile or so ahead of the coach, then dismounted to rest their mounts until it had passed them and covered another mile; but they always kept it in sight and seemed to think nothing of riding a hundred miles or more until they reached a garrison town and were relieved by another troop.
The coach was well sprung and furnished with many cushions, but in spite of that Roger found its swaying and jolting extremely tiring, and the monotony of being driven hour after hour through the cheerless, almost uninhabited landscape became nearly intolerable. Having been up for some twenty hours before he started he would have liked to get to sleep as soon as they were clear of St. Petersburg; but the motion of the coach kept him awake, and it was not until he had been on his way for another eight hours that he dropped off into an uneasy doze. From then on he slept only when nature overcame his discomfort; sometimes during the day, sometimes at night, but never for more than a few hours at a time.
When he reached the city of Paskov, he allowed himself to spend two hours at the best inn having a hot meal. Next day they entered Livonia, but the monotony of the countryside remained unchanged. At Dvinsk he again stopped for a proper meal at an inn. Soon after crossing the Dvina river they were in Lithuania, but the endless steppes occasionally broken by dark forests or a small township appeared no different from those he had passed through on preceding days. At Vilna he could stand the interminable swaying and monotony no longer, so spent a night in a reasonably comfortable bed. There he slept like a log but he had ordered the inn servants to wake him at six the following morning and, still bleary-eyed, stumbled down to the coach which by then he had come to look on as a particularly unpleasant form of prison.
At Grodno he entered Poland, but since its final partition among Russia, Prussia and Austria in ’95, I was no longer an independent country and the city now stood just inside German Poland. Count Pahlen had generously made him a present of the coach, but here he had to part with his coachmen and escort.
Prussia, having invaded Hanover at the end of March, was now at war with England and, as Alexander had not yet formally withdrawn from the Northern League, still allied to Russia; so as Roger was travelling as a Russian courier, he had no difficulty, after a few hours, in engaging another coachman and outriders.
Setting off again on his gruelling journey through the still flat lands of Poland he reached Warsaw. There he spent another night in bed, in the morning taking the road to Breslau in Silesia. Two days after passing through it he went to bed to his heartfelt relief in the civilized capital of Saxony. From Dresden onwards there would, at least, be better inns at which to snatch a meal and much greater variety in the scenery. But that had to be paid for by a considerable slowing up of his progress owing to the hilly nature of the country. Maddened by having to get out and walk, at times for a mile or more, while his coach lumbered up steep slopes, when he got to Frankfurt he decided to make the remainder of the journey on horseback.
He had now entered territory held by the French, so he destroyed his Russian passport and drove to the Headquarters. After some enquiries there he ran to earth an officer who knew him as Colonel Breuc. He then had no difficulty in disposing of the coach for a good round sum and securing a military permit to use relays of post horses.
After a good sleep he set off while it was still dark to cover the last two hundred and fifty miles as fast as he possibly could. Breaking his journey only to sleep at Verdun, late on the evening of the second day he rode into Paris. By determination and endurance, and maintaining throughout an average of slightly under five miles an hour, he had performed the amazing feat of covering the immense distance between the Russian and French capitals in fourteen and a half days.
His last tour de force on horseback had left him saddle-sore, aching in every limb and terribly exhausted, but he did not mean to lose an hour of the time he had won. At La Belle Etoile, while a hot bath was being prepared, he revived himself with a pint of champagne, and after his bath he got Maître Blanchard to massage him vigorously. Then, dressed in his smartest uniform, he had himself carried in a sedan chair to Talleyrand’s; for, as Duroc had been sent on a diplomatic mission, it was to the Foreign Minister that he would write any suspicions that he might have about ‘Le Colonel Breuc’.
When the chairmen set him down outside the mansion in the Rue du Bac, he was on the point of falling asleep. With an effort he pulled himself together, dreading this last hurdle he had to face; for if Talleyrand was disengaged it was possible that he would talk to him for a considerable time, and he feared that in his state of utter weariness he might well refer to some recent happening in Northern Europe that the shrewd statesman would at once realise he could not possibly have learned while rusticating in the south of France. But the luck that had carried him so many hundreds of miles without a serious accident or hold-up still held. It chanced that Talleyrand was holding a reception that evening, so Roger had only to mingle with the crowd until the Foreign Minister noticed and came limping gracefully over to him.
‘Cher ami, how very pleasant to see you back in Paris,’ he said as Roger bowed to him. Then, raising his quizzing glass and studying Roger’s worn face through it he added after a moment, ‘But “ventre de St. Gris,” as the Great Henry used to say, you look as if that wound you received at Marengo has reduced you to a sorry state.’
Roger gave him a pale smile, ‘I thank Your Excellency for your concern for me, but ’tis over a year since Marengo and my lung is perfectly recovered. I confess, though, that my powers of endurance are not quite up to what they used to be. As a test of them I’ve ridden nearly thirty leagues since dawn and have somewhat overdone it. On reaching Paris I should have gone straight to bed; but hearing that Your Excellency was holding a reception this evening I could not forgo the temptation to pay my respects to you.’
In fact Roger had ridden nearly fifty leagues, but he had been given a good chance to establish a limit to his capabilities. Talleyrand shook his powdered head, ‘I marvel that any man should so fatigue himself as to ride so far in a day unless he feared for his life. But no matter. Do me the pleasure of breakfasting with me. Let me see—yes, on Friday next. And now get you to bed.’
Unutterably relieved to have come so happily through this last ordeal, Roger bowed his thanks, had himself conveyed back to La Belle Etoile and, tumbling into bed in his smallclothes, slept the clock round.
Next day he went to the Tuileries
to report his return to Paris, but learned that Bonaparte was somewhere on the Channel coast inspecting garrisons, and was not expected back until the week-end; so he filled in his time by renewing old acquaintances and learning what had been happening in Paris during his absence.
It was now stale news, but on Christmas Eve, only a few days after Roger had left for England, Bonaparte had narrowly escaped assassination. Accompanied by Lannes, Berthier and Lauriston, and followed by another carriage containing Josephine, her daughter Hortense, Caroline Murat and Bessières, he had been on his way to the Opera to hear the first performance of Haydn’s magnificent oratorio of the ‘Creation’. While they were passing through the Rue Nicaise a barrel of gunpowder, concealed in a covered wagon at the side of the street, had exploded with a terrific detonation half way between the two carriages. Nearly twenty passers-by had been killed, a great many injured, and the walls of nearby houses had been blown down; but no one in either carriage had been harmed, except that Hortense had received a slight cut on the hand from flying glass as the windows of the carriage she was in were shattered.
Bonaparte had gone on to the Opera and displayed an unruffled calm throughout, but Bessières told Roger that on the First Consul’s return to the Tuileries his rage had known no bounds. Without a shadow of evidence he declared that It was the Jacobins who had attempted to blow him up, and that he meant to settle with those old extremists once and for all.
The Wanton Princess Page 15