Roger had heard nothing of this last. Napoleon had always disliked Bernadotte, so had displayed ungovernable rage when he learned that his ex-Marshal had actually brought Sweden into the war on the side of the allies, and had sworn to be avenged on him. When the war reopened, the allies had put Bernadotte in command of their army of the north, which consisted of some one hundred and twenty thousand Prussians, Russians and Swedes. Instead of concentrating all his forces against the Allies' main army on the far side of the Elbe, Napoleon's personal hatred of Bernadotte had led him in mid-August to despatch Marshal Oudinot with sixty thousand men, and General Girard's division of fourteen thousand in support, to capture Berlin.
French intelligence reported that there had been dissension among the Allies. Bernadotte, afraid to try conclusions with Napoleon, had been for retiring behind the Havel and Spree, but the Prussians were determined to die if they had to in front of their capital rather than behind it, and had pushed the Swedish Crown Prince into letting them have their way. After some initial successes, Oudinot was surprised by an independent corps of Prussians on his right; his centre, under Regnier, was driven back and, a few days later, Girard's division was almost annihilated. So this pointless attempt against Berlin had led to another defeat for the Emperor, and the loss of some ten thousand men.
The bottle of hock being finished and Roger having given a brief account of his movements since escaping from Russia, he took his ease while Caulaincourt settled down to work at his desk. An hour or so later an adjutant brought him a despatch. Having glanced at it, he sprang up from his chair with an excited shout:
'Here is splendid news! That traitor Moreau is dead. His legs were blown off by a cannon-ball during last week's battle.'
Moreau had first become famous as a General during the wars of the Revolution and, while Bonaparte had been in Italy, won the great battle of Hohenlinden. But he was a die-hard Republican, and his enormous popularity with the people had made him an obvious leader of any movement to curb the powers of a dictator, which Bonaparte as First Consul was already showing signs of assuming. To forestall any such danger to his position Napoleon had had him and a number of other Jacobins brought to trial for conspiring against the State. They had been condemned—in Moreau's case probably unjustly—but, fearing a popular outcry, Bonaparte had not dared order the hero's execution, so had sent him into exile.
Roger had not heard of him for a dozen years and, sitting up, exclaimed in surprise, 'Moreau ? I thought he was in the United States.'
Caulaincourt shook his head. 'Nay. He was, but had recently returned, hoping that the time had come to take his revenge on the Emperor. He was received with the highest honours by the three Allied monarchs, and has since been acting as military adviser to the Czar Alexander. I must take these great tidings to our master. Personal feelings apart, he will be delighted, for Moreau was a very able General, and so a danger to us. Come with me and you can be assured of a good reception from His Majesty.'
Ten minutes later they were both in the presence of the Emperor. In the nine months since Roger had last seen "him, he seemed to have aged several years. His paunch was even more prominent, the dark hair brushed across his big head was thinner, his stoop more pronounced and his face, always pale, now had an unhealthy look.
When Caulaincourt announced his news, Napoleon's fine eyes suddenly lit up, and he cried, 'So that treacherous pig is dead, eh? What a splendid bonus to our recent victory. God be praised for yet another mercy.'
Then his glance lit on Roger, who had been standing a little behind Caulaincourt and in his shadow from the big lantern that lit the marquee. Leaning forward he scowled for a moment and thrust out his powerful jaw. Then he suddenly laughed:
'Breuc, or I'll be damned! I swear you have nine lives like a cat. How did you get out of Russia?'
Bowing low, Roger started off, 'May it please Your Imperial Majesty . . .' then gave the account of himself that he had told both Clarke and Caulaincourt. That Roger had been in England did not surprise the Emperor, as his memory was prodigious, but when it emerged that, from Sweden, Roger had been carried off to the United States, Napoleon's interest immediately quickened.
'Ha! Then you can tell me about the war the Americans are waging against the accursed English. You shall do so while I eat.' Turning, he called in his heavily-accented French to his secretary, Baron Meneval, who was working at a desk at the far end of the marquee, 'Have my dinner brought.'
Meneval was absent only a few minutes. During that time Roger continued his account of how he had succeeded in rejoining his master by way of Spain. Then Rustom, the Mameluke slave whom Napoleon had brought back from Egypt as his personal body servant, came in carrying a single dish under a silver cover.
Napoleon had never had any interest in food and at meals in his Palaces had tended to embarrass his guests by the swiftness with which he despatched course after course, evidently grudging the time that had to be given to eating. When in the field he ate irregularly and, in order that he should not be kept waiting whenever he felt hungry, day and night his chefs put a fresh chicken on the spit every ten minutes or so, in order that one should always be sufficiently roasted to be served immediately.
While he ate voraciously of this single course, washing the meat down with gulps of red wine, Roger told him all he had gathered about the Anglo-American war on land and sea. When he had exhausted the subject, he went on smoothly:
'You will recall, Sire, that I have English relatives. While I was in London I learned that a young nephew of mine, the Earl of St. Errnins, a Lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards, who was attached to the Duke of Brunswick's contingent, had been taken captive. I have reason to believe that he is now in one of the Prince d'Eckmuhl's prisoner-of-war camps. The boy's mother is a dear friend of mine, so I should take it as a great personal favour if Your Imperial Majesty would give me an order for his release. It could be executed without his becoming aware that I am in fact a loyal Frenchman and in your service. He could be told that his liberty has been restored owing to an exchange with the Prussians, on condition that they send him home and he remains a non-combatant for the duration of the war.'
The Emperor considered for a moment, wiped his mouth on a napkin, then replied, 'Why not? It will make one less mouth for us to feed and, God knows, supplies in this damn' country are devilish hard to come by. My poor army is now living on starvation rations.' Turning to Meneval, he added:
'Write an order to Davout, or whom it may concern, in accordance with Breuc's wishes, and let him have it.'
Ten minutes later, with the order in his hand and greatly elated by his success, Roger was bowing himself out of the marquee. But his elation was short-lived, as Napoleon said curtly:
'I can't let you go off to Davout to arrange such a minor matter yet, though. The campaign has already proved most costly, and I am short of A.D.C.s. With your long experience you will prove most valuable to me. You must remain until I've taught those treacherous Austrians a lesson and dealt with the rest of the rabble that has combined against me. When I've done that, it will be time enough for you to restore this youth to his mother's arms.'
'To hear is to obey, Sire.' Roger forced himself to use cheerfully the Gasconade with which he had often before taken the Emperor's orders. But, as he made his way to find the quarters which Caulaincourt had promised to have allotted to him, he was greatly worried. It was already September. Charles was menaced by death when the leaves began to fall, and that would not now be long. It might be months before a decisive battle was fought, and he dared not flout the Emperor's orders by leaving him at once. He must remain for a week or two at least, but it had become imperative that he should not remain longer with Napoleon. He made up his mind there and then that at the first chance, during a reconnaissance or skirmish, he would disappear, leaving it to be believed that he had been killed or captured, and make off with all speed to Davout's headquarters.
Next day Roger learned that
the Emperor, still obsessed with his desire to defeat and humiliate Bernadotte, had, on the 5th, sent Ney with his corps to reinforce and take over the command from Oudinot for another attempt to capture Berlin. On the 7th Napoleon, with further divisions and his staff, including Roger, left Dresden to support this new opposition.
The Emperor's position was now a far from favourable one. Since the recommencement of hostilities, he had lost one hundred and fifty thousand men and three hundred guns. His communications were under constant attack from German irregulars, it was becoming more and more difficult to supply his army, and he had at least three hostile armies of mixed Allies threatening him from different quarters, the exact positions of which were unknown to him.
Not long after leaving Dresden he received a despatch from Ney, reporting that his opening move had proved successful and he had driven the enemy back on Jiiterberg. But on the following day intelligence was received that the army of Silesia was again advancing on Dresden; so, instead of continuing north to join Ney for a concerted attack on Berlin, Napoleon turned his army about, to defend the Saxon capital again.
The Emperor's failure to support his Marshal, coupled with Ney's misjudgement in ordering Oudinot to reinforce their front on the north bank of the marshy Ahebach, brought about disaster. Courier after courier brought tidings of the ever-worsening situation. In the neighbourhood of Dennewitz, Bulow's Prussians drove in the French right. Ney made a desperate attempt to break through the Prussian centre, but failed. Oudinot was unable to get his troops back across the marshy little river in time to turn the tide of battle. Before he could do so, the cautious Bernadotte had decided to commit his Swedes. As darkness fell, the French broke and fled. The second attempt to take Berlin had failed lamentably and cost the French twenty-two thousand men.
With this depressing news, Napoleon returned along the road to Dresden. On the morning of September 12th, before breaking camp to make the last day's march, he sent for Roger and gave him a despatch for St. Cyr who, as before, had been left to defend the Saxon capital, and told Roger to ride on ahead with it.
This was just the kind of opportunity Roger had been waiting for. Once clear of the army, instead of going to Dresden, he could turn off along a road leading west, then make his way north to Davout's headquarters in Hamburg. To have carried out his plan would have been impossible had he had a long distance to cover, through territory made dangerous by partisan bands that roamed the country harassing the French whenever opportunity offered, as he would have had to take an escort. But Dresden was only twelve miles off and, as it was the Emperor's main base, there were constant troop movements taking place in the vicinity, making the area too dangerous for German irregulars to operate in.
Normally he would have taken his orderly but, with so litde time to plan his venture, he could think of no excuse by which he could rid himself of the man later, and it was important that he should disappear without trace. So, while his charger was being saddled up, he said to the man:
'I have been ordered by the Emperor to ride on ahead, but I'll have no call to dismount before reaching Dresden, so I'll not need a horse-holder. You are to remain with the column, and when you reach camp, keep a sharp eye on my baggage.'
A moment later he had mounted and set off. Within a quarter of an hour he was clear of the advance guard and cantering cheerfully along, greatly elated by the thought that at last he was free of Napoleon and, within a few days now, should be finished once and for all with this unfortunate business that had yet again brought him unwillingly back to the Continent.
During the next half-hour he passed several tracks leading into the wood that bordered the road, but he knew that a mile or so further on there was a highway to the west, and it was this he intended to take; for he was well aware that in the country that lay between Dresden and Hamburg, a solitary French officer was liable to be attacked unless he kept to the main roads.
He was within a mile of the highway leading west when the unexpected happened. Suddenly a shot rang out. He felt a blow as though he had been hit by a musket ball on the calf of his right leg. His horse gave a loud neigh, reared and attempted to bolt. With an effort he checked it and brought it to a halt. For a minute the animal stood with its head down and legs splayed, quivering, then it slowly sank to the ground.
Roger had ample time to free himself from his mount as, panting heavily, it rolled on to its side; but, as he put his weight on his right foot, the numbed leg gave under him, and he fell on his knees beside the horse. One glance at his leg confirmed his worst fears. He had been shot through the calf and the bullet had then penetrated the horse's belly.
The nature of his attacker he had already guessed. No band of German irregulars would have risked operating so near Dresden. It must be a solitary farmer or woodsman who lived in the neighbourhood. All over Germany there were now thousands of such men, embittered by years of French tyranny, who would not leave their homes to serve in the armed forces, but took a fanatical delight in taking pot shots at their hated enemies whenever they could do so with a good chance of escaping capture.
On his way up from the Rhine Roger had nearly always remained in close contact with French troops, as he had heard several accounts of attacks made on French couriers, and other soldiers who had become temporarily detached from their units. He knew, too, the sequel that often followed when the German succeeded only in wounding the man at whom he had fired. He waited for a while, until his victim had become weakened by loss of blood, then suddenly emerged from his cover to fire again at close quarters and so finish him off.
Whipping out one of his pistols, Roger crawled behind his fallen horse and anxiously scanned the wood from which the shot had come. He could see no sign of movement, but knew that death lurked there waiting to claim him. Looking down again at his leg, he saw that it was now bleeding badly, and he had no means of stopping the flow of blood. Soon it would have weakened him to a point where he no longer had the power to resist.
As he lay there, his mind seethed with anger, frustration and self-reproach. For many years he had diced with death. There had been unpleasant chances in battles afloat and on land that he had been compelled to take; but nearly all the worst dangers he had run had been calculated risks. He owed his survival very largely to careful preparation of his plans and never taking any chance that could possibly be avoided. But that morning, in his elation and haste, he had neglected the rule of a lifetime. A moment's thought should have told him that only a half-witted French officer would set off unaccompanied to ride through German forests, now that the country had become hostile. He should have taken his orderly and, as the man would not have dared disobey him, kept him for company all the way to Hamburg.
Now he was to pay for his stupid thoughtlessness. Gone now was all hope of saving Charles; while he, after succeeding in so many brilliant exploits, was to die uselessly, murdered in a ditch by a German peasant, who was no better than a human animal.
16
A Hideous Affray
Roger had only just completed his swift survey of the wood opposite when the musket banged again. Instantly he ducked his head. The bullet went nowhere near it, but thudded into the horse's neck. Blood gushed from the wound, the animal made an ugly choking sound, writhed for a few moments, then shuddered and died.
The second, ill-directed shot at least showed that Roger's would-be killer was a poor marksman, which was some comfort. It meant that he would have to come out of the wood and much closer to ensure hitting his victim in a lethal spot—perhaps even close enough for Roger to use his pistol with effect and so turn the tables on him.
But Roger was very far from sanguine about his chances. There was always the possibility that French troops might appear on the scene, but he had passed only one troop of cavalry since leaving the main army, so he had little hope of being rescued by such means before he would have to make a last, desperate attempt to save his life. He could only pray that the attack would
come soon, while he still had the strength to meet it.
For the next ten minutes he remained acutely alert, listening with faint hope for the distant sound of horses' hooves approaching along the road and, with fear, for a nearby rustle in the undergrowth, indicating that his enemy was about to attack him; but the silence remained unbroken. Meanwhile he lay at full length alongside the carcase of the horse, occasionally taking a quick peep over its belly, to make certain that he was in no danger of being crept up on and taken by surprise.
By then his leg was beginning to pain him badly. Obviously the muscle of his calf must have been torn right through, and blood was still seeping steadily out of the hole on each side of his riding boot. If only he could have got the boot off, he could have bandaged the wound and stopped the flow. But to get the boot off without help was quite impossible. Even normally he had to use a jack or have his servant pull his boots off. Yet he knew that if he could not somehow stop the bleeding he would become easy game for the man who was waiting to kill him.
It then occurred to him that he might open up the boot by cutting down either side of the leather so, laying his pistol aside, he got out a sharp knife which he always carried, and set about this onerous task. The leather, although as soft as velvet to the touch, proved unexpectedly tough, and every time he put pressure on the knife an agonising pain shot through his calf. He was also hampered by the fact that he dared not raise his head, so had to work in an awkward position, doubled up, to remain behind the cover of the horse. Within a few minutes he was streaming with sweat and, after cutting through only two inches of the leather, gave a loud groan, then relaxed.
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