Fire and Sword

by Simon Scarrow

  Caroline glanced round the table and muttered, ‘I always said she wasn’t good enough for Napoleon.’

  ‘Silence!’ Napoleon snapped at her. ‘You don’t know what you are talking about, you little fool. Is your memory so short? When we arrived in France we were fugitives with no home, no money, no influence. Josephine was the wife of a count, the confidante of the most powerful politicians in the capital, and men lost their hearts to her.Yet she chose me for her husband.When I could barely afford the uniform on my back and I was living in a run-down slum. Do you have any idea what that means to me? I adored her. I still do,’ he added quickly. ‘With Josephine I can be myself. When I am surrounded by lesser men and lickspittles, only Josephine offers me honesty and understanding. I owe her my loyalty. And my love. So don’t you dare try to come between us.’

  Caroline shrugged. ‘That’s all very well, but in return she owes you an heir, Napoleon. Where is your child?’

  Napoleon’s expression darkened, but before he could respond his mother cut in.

  ‘Does it matter? That woman is clearly too old for child-bearing. There is only one solution to the problem and the sooner you face up to that the better, my son.’

  Napoleon shook his head. ‘I will not do it. I will not.’

  ‘Not now, perhaps. But regardless of your feelings for her, you have an obligation to your people. There must be an imperial successor.’ Letizia wagged a finger at him. ‘Sooner or later, you must provide France with an heir to the throne. Especially if you go off to war again and place yourself in danger.’

  ‘Danger?’ Napoleon laughed. ‘Mother, have you not heard? I lead a charmed life.’

  ‘Your luck will not last for ever.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Letizia shrugged.‘No man’s luck ever does. I’ve lived long enough to know that. And so you must have an heir.’

  ‘There will be time enough for that.’ Napoleon emptied his glass and pushed his chair away from the table, signifying that the meal was at an end.‘But first there is the small matter of crushing Britain, once and for all.’

  Chapter 4

  Arthur

  London, September 1805

  For Sir Arthur Wellesley the sight of London was welcome and familiar after six months at sea on the voyage from India. It had been almost nine years since he had last set foot in the capital and he could not help rising from his seat and leaning out of the window as the coach clattered to the top of a gentle hill from where there was a fine view of London’s sprawling houses, and glimpses of the gleaming Thames and a forest of masts from the shipping that brought raw materials and luxuries to Britain and carried her manufactured goods across the world.

  Now, thanks to his efforts and those of his brother Richard, Britain’s wealth and power was enhanced by the vast swathe of Indian territories they had won. While Richard had served as Governor General, Arthur had won his spurs in the army, rising from the rank of colonel to that of major-general at the head of an army that had won a string of great victories. Finally, his achievements had been rewarded with a knighthood and he returned to Britain a man of experience, wealth and influence.

  At thirty-six, he felt that he was at the height of his powers, and could serve his country well in its titanic struggle with France.When he had left Britain the enemy had been a revolutionary republic. Now France was an empire, ruled by the tyrant Bonaparte. With much time on his hands over the last six months, Arthur had read every newspaper that the ship had picked up in ports along the way and had followed the progress of Bonaparte from strength to strength. It was a staggering tale of success, Arthur admitted grudgingly. The man was clearly a phenomenal force of nature to have achieved so much so swiftly. It was a pity that Bonaparte’s qualities as general and statesman were not moderated by any desire for peace with his neighbouring kingdoms. At the end of the present war, Bonaparte would be master of the world, or France would be humbled. It was Britain’s duty, as Arthur saw it, to bring about that defeat, however long it took, however many millions of pounds it cost, and however many lives it claimed.

  The first chills of autumn were some weeks off yet and so the sky above the city was only covered with a faint haze of sickly yellow smoke. Once winter set in, Arthur recalled, there would be a perpetual smear across the sky on still days as the smoke from tens of thousands of fires wrapped itself over London. For a moment he fondly recalled the fresh breezes that had accompanied his recent sea journey.The ship had docked in Portsmouth only two days earlier and he had not yet lost his sea legs. Each time he stepped down from the coach the ground felt strangely unsteady beneath his feet, as if he still stood on a wooden deck that rose and fell with monotonous regularity for days on end. There had been a few weeks of wild weather as the Indiaman had fought its way round the Southern Cape in rough seas, but for most of the voyage he had been able to rest and recover from the strains of several years of hard soldiering in India.

  The sight of the city lightened his sober mood, and he smiled at the prospect of being reunited with his family and looking up scores of former friends. More important still, Arthur was keen to discover how things stood between him and Kitty, the young love he had left behind in Ireland.The infrequent communications between them over the last ten years were a poor basis from which to judge the true nature of her feelings towards him. And what would he make of her? Ten years might well have wrought a significant change in Kitty’s character, not to mention her looks. But it was not her looks that had first won his heart, Arthur reminded himself. It was that quirky vivaciousness of hers that set her apart from all the wide-eyed, demure and ultimately dull debutantes who decorated the social circle of Dublin Castle. If it remained undimmed, her personality would suit him admirably.The question was, how should Arthur proceed in the matter of winning her hand?

  He had tried once before, some months prior to leaving for India, when he had asked her older brother, Tom, for permission to marry her. As a mere major, with little prospect of winning a fortune, and every prospect of a premature death, Arthur had had little to offer but love.To a practical man like Tom such an emotion was neither attractive nor desirable. And so he had refused Arthur’s request, despite the fact that Kitty had already given her heart to the young officer. In a last attempt to hold her affections Arthur had written a letter stating that his feelings for her would not change, and if he returned with rank and riches and she was still unwed, his offer of marriage would stand.

  The coach began to follow the road down a gentle slope and the view of London was lost behind a line of trees, so Arthur eased himself back on to his seat opposite the considerable bulk of the other passenger travelling to London.The man was wearing a dark coat with a white lace stock woven with an intricate design.They had exchanged a bare formal greeting at the start of the journey and few words since. Mr Thomas Jardine had announced that he was a banker and had clearly never heard of the young major-general when Arthur had offered his name in return. Mr Jardine had bought a newspaper at the last stop. Now he folded it up and set it down on the leather seat beside him.

  Arthur gestured towards the newspaper. ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course, sir. Be my guest.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Arthur picked up the newspaper and opened it out on his lap. One of the most prominent articles dealt with the preparations for battle by Britain’s naval hero, Admiral Lord Nelson. Arthur was already familiar with the most notable of the man’s exploits, namely his crushing victory over the French at Aboukir Bay, on the coast of Egypt. But Nelson was promising to eclipse even that with one of the largest fleets that the Royal Navy had ever amassed. Even now the warships were gathering at Portsmouth, loading shot, powder and supplies for a great test of arms against the combined navies of France and Spain.

  Mr Jardine stirred. ‘Quite the man, eh?’

  Arthur looked up, lowering the newspaper on to his lap. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Nelson. Britain’s best chance of humbling the frogs. Once he’s given them
a sound thrashing, that’ll be the end of any talk of an invasion.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Damned lucky thing we have the Royal Navy standing between us and Monsieur Bonaparte. If not for it, we’d all be forced to parler frog and eat the damned things before the year was out.’

  ‘Yes, we are indeed fortunate to have Nelson and the Navy.’ Arthur smiled. ‘But one should not forget the part played by the army in defending Britain.’

  ‘Of course.’ Jardine nodded, his cheeks wobbling.‘Though I dare say that even you would admit that our, er, valiant redcoats have had little chance to distinguish themselves in this war.’

  Arthur’s smile faded. ‘I can assure you, sir, that the army has played its part as much as the Navy.’

  ‘Oh, come now, I meant no offence. I merely desired to point out that the burden of the war has largely fallen on the shoulders of our jack tars.You cannot deny it, sir.’

  ‘Can’t I?’ Arthur thought back to his first campaign in the lowlands. Half of his men had died from want of food and the bitter cold of a terrible winter. Then there had been India, and the long marches through searing heat before taking on armies vastly superior in size and beating them. He fixed his eyes on the other man and cleared his throat. ‘I am sure that if you were in full possession of the facts, you would not judge the contribution of the army so harshly.’

  Jardine shook his head briefly. ‘I am not being harsh. Forgive me if I appear to be. I merely point to the record of both services. On the seas our sailors have completely mastered the enemy, whereas our soldiers are no match for the French and have failed to secure the least foothold on the continent. Instead of taking the fight directly to the enemy they are merely nibbling away at his colonies, far from the heart of the struggle.’

  ‘It is hardly the fault of the soldiers if the government chooses to deploy them in such a fashion,’ Arthur protested.

  ‘Precisely, sir.Take yourself.’ Jardine gestured towards Arthur’s tanned face. ‘From your colour, I assume that you have been on service in the tropics, or some such?’

  ‘I have just returned from India.’

  ‘And what did you do there of any importance to this country?’

  Arthur took a deep breath.The question was startling in terms of the breadth of the answer he could provide, but Jardine continued before he had a chance to begin.

  ‘I warrant that you and your men spent most of the time chasing the natives off the property of the East India Company.’

  ‘We achieved more than that, sir. It is thanks to the efforts of the army that Britain now rules over lands many times the size and population of the British Isles.’

  ‘India is a mere detail of our struggle against France,’ Jardine countered dismissively. ‘Besides, you were fighting savages, not proper civilised armies. How could you possibly lose in such an unequal contest?’

  Arthur leaned back with a weary expression. The man was clearly ignorant of the campaigns that had been fought across the heart of the subcontinent over the last decade. He knew nothing of the bloody assault on the Sultan of Mysore’s fortress capital of Seringapatam. Nothing of the desperate march across the face of the vast Mahratta army at Assaye to attack their flank and defeat them. Nothing of the bold advance against the cannon and massed ranks of the enemy at Argaum. Nothing of the long months of bitter skirmishes with the bandit columns led by the bloodthirsty Dhoondiah Waugh. Clearly, the exploits of Arthur and his men had been overlooked back home in Britain. Almost as if they were a forgotten army led by a forgotten general. He sighed.

  ‘I can assure you that the troops I was honoured to command in India faced enemies every bit as dangerous as the French. When the time comes for our soldiers to face Bonaparte in pitched battle, they will be more than a match for him and his men.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Of course.’ Jardine nodded placatingly. ‘I am sure that you know your business. But from the point of view of the well-informed layman, such as myself, it would appear that our best hope of defeating the French lies in the Royal Navy.’

  ‘By God, you are wrong, sir. Quite wrong,’Arthur snapped.‘How can the Navy defeat Bonaparte? To be sure, Admiral Nelson can defeat his warships, but he can only pursue the French as far as their coast. And from there on, wherever there is solid ground, Bonaparte can defy his enemies. So it follows that the war between Britain and France can only be decided on land.When the time is right our soldiers will fight on the soil of Europe and there they will prove that they are more than a match for the very best of Napoleon’s men. Mark my words, sir.You will see the day.’

  ‘I hope so, sir. Sincerely I do. But that depends on our government’s being prepared to land a force large enough to make a difference.’

  Arthur nodded. ‘And to keep it adequately supplied and reinforced when necessary. You are right, sir. The government has so far declined to commit to such an investment of its military power. But that will change. There are men with vision at Westminster. Men who can be persuaded to take the bold course.’

  ‘Who will persuade them, sir? Most of our generals seem to be the very fount of caution and, dare I say it, indecision.’

  ‘Then it will be down to men like myself to make the case for action.’

  Jardine smiled.‘Pardon me, sir, but what makes you think that young officers will carry much weight in this affair?’

  ‘Because I shall speak the truth. I shall present the facts clearly and logically so that there can be no doubt as to the correct path to take.’

  ‘Ah, but you speak as a soldier. Those in Westminster are inclined to speak and listen as politicians. Facts and logic are as clay to their minds; soft and infinitely malleable. I fear you overestimate the influence of reason on such men.’

  Arthur was quiet and still for a moment before he shrugged. ‘We shall see.’ He picked up the newspaper again. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, sir, I would like to finish this before the journey is over.’

  Jardine nodded briefly and turned to look out of the window with a slight pout of piqued disapproval.

  The coach soon emerged from the trees and entered the first of the villages that were slowly being swallowed up and overwhelmed by the sprawling capital. The cottages and small shops gradually gave way to dense housing that rose up on either side, crowding the cobbled streets. Occasionally the coach passed workhouses and the premises of small industries from whose chimneys smoke belched into the sky, adding to the brown pall hanging over London. At length they arrived at the yard of the coach station in Chelsea, and after a curt farewell to Mr Jardine Arthur tipped a porter to carry his travel case to one of the cabs waiting out in the street. The rest of his baggage was in the hold of the Indiaman and would be sent on to London as soon as it was unloaded.

  ‘Cavendish Square, if you please,’ Arthur called up to the cabby as he climbed aboard and pulled the small door to.

  ‘Aye, sir!’ The cabby nodded, and then flicked the reins, urging his horse forward. The cab rattled out into the traffic passing along the crowded thoroughfare. At once Arthur was struck by the stark difference between the streets of London and those he had become used to in India.As a boy, his family had mostly lived in the countryside of Ireland, and Arthur had been horrified by the squalor and the smoky, sweaty odours of Dublin and then London. But he had quickly become used to them, just as he had become used to the appalling poverty and stench of the primitive slums of Indian cities. Now he measured London by a new standard and marvelled at the obvious wealth of the capital and the fine facades it presented to the paved and cobbled streets.

  As the cab turned into Cavendish Square, Arthur’s mind turned to his family. The house that his mother rented was in a street off the square. It was modest by the standards of the aristocracy, but Anne Wellesley had been saddled with debts after her husband had died and what little was left of her private fortune was supplemented by loans from her sons. Arthur wondered what kind of greeting she would offer him after an absence of a decade.They had
not parted on good terms, mostly because they had never been on good terms. She had regarded Arthur as the least able, and most indolent, of her sons, and had always been cold with him. Now that he was a major-general and the hero of Assaye he wondered if his stock with her might have risen. Would she now embrace him and hold him in the same regard as Richard,William and Henry?

  Arthur rapped the side of the cab and called to the driver. ‘Stop here!’

  The cab pulled up and Arthur stepped out on to the street in front of his mother’s house, straightening his jacket as he waited for the driver to bring his travelling case down from the roof. Then, taking a deep breath, he climbed the steps and rapped the brass knocker sharply.There was a short delay before he heard footsteps inside and the door opened to reveal a footman.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I am Arthur Wellesley. Is my mother at home?’

  The footman scrutinised his face for a moment before he nodded and stood aside.