But the Prince of Orange was too well acquainted with his lordship to be cast down by his chilly letters. In fact, the Prince was in high fettle. His personal staff was composed of just the men he liked best: all English, and including his dear friend the Earl of March. He was very happy, sparkling with gaiety, looking absurdly young, and just a little conscious of the dizzy military heights to which he had risen. Sometimes he felt intoxicatingly important, and was a trifle imperious with the generals under his command; but when he found himself in Lord Hill’s presence, and looked into that kindly face, with its twinkling eyes and fatherly smile, his importance fell away from him, and he was all eager deference, just as he was with the Duke, or with the veteran Count Alten of the German Legion, whose bright, stern gaze could always disconcert him. Sir Charles Count von Alten was under the Prince, in command of the 3rd Division, which was formed of one British brigade, under Sir Colin Halkett; one brigade of the German Legion, under Baron Ompteda; and one Hanoverian brigade, under Count Kielmansegg. Count Alten was fifty-one years of age, seasoned in war, and rather grim-faced. He was an extremely competent general—so competent that even the men of the Light Division had approved of him when he had commanded them—and a somewhat alarming person for a young gentleman only twenty-four years old to have under him. He was very polite to the Prince, and they got on really very well together, but his Royal Highness was glad that the rest of the 1st Corps, with the exception of the Guards, was composed of Dutch-Belgian troops under two generals who, though experienced soldiers, naturally had a respect for their Hereditary Prince which the English and the Germans could not be expected to share. His bête noire, and late second-in-command, Sir Henry Clinton, was commanding a division in Hill’s corps; and that much more alarming person even than Count Alten, Sir Thomas Picton, was destined for the Reserve.
Sir Thomas was not expected to arrive in the Netherlands for quite some time, but it was certain that he was coming sooner or later, for the Duke, although he did not much care for him in a personal way, had made a point of asking for him.
The latest important arrival was Lord Uxbridge. A General Order instructing brigade commanders of cavalry to report in future to him had been issued from the adjutant-general’s printing office on the day of the Duke’s ball. He was to have command of all the British and German cavalry, and was reputed to be a very dashing leader.
He had arrived in the Netherlands in time to attend the Duke’s party, and was present at the preceding dinner. When he appeared in the Salle du Concert he attracted a great deal of attention, for the men were anxious to see what sort of a fellow he was, and the ladies could hardly drag their eyes from his resplendent person.
The Peninsula Army had been accustomed to Stapleton Cotton, now Lord Combermere, but the Earl of Uxbridge was the better cavalry general. He had served with distinction under Sir John Moore, but two circumstances had prevented his being employed under Wellington. He had been senior to the Duke, and had further complicated the situation by absconding with the wife of Wellington’s brother Henry. This unfortunate affair put the Pagets and the Wellesleys on the worst of bad terms. Henry had been obliged to divorce Lady Charlotte, and any scheme of sending Lord Uxbridge out to Spain had naturally been felt to have been out of the question. Five years later, in 1815, it was an understood thing that Combermere would again command the Cavalry: the Army wanted him, and it was certain that the Duke had applied for him. But to everyone’s surprise the Horse Guards sent Uxbridge instead. It was said they had done so at the instigation of that meddlesome person, the Prince Regent, and it was generally felt that the appointment would not only cause grave scandal in England but must also offend the Duke. But the Duke, like the Regent, was not remarkable for holding the marriage tie in any peculiar degree of sanctity, and upon a friend’s saying to him that Lord Uxbridge’s appointment would give rise to much scandal, replied, with one of his high-nosed stares: ‘Why?’
A little disconcerted, his well-meaning friend stammered: ‘Well, but—but your Grace cannot have forgotten the affair of Lady Charlotte!’
‘No! I haven’t forgotten that.’
‘Oh! Well—well, that’s not all, you know. They say Uxbridge runs away with everyone he can.’
‘I’ll take damned good care he don’t run away with me!’ replied the Duke caustically. ‘I don’t care about anyone else.’
The Army, like the Duke, did not care a button for Lord Uxbridge’s amatory adventures: it merely wanted a good cavalry leader. Lord Uxbridge was said to be a veritable Murat: it remained to be seen whether this was true. He was also said to be very haughty. He did not seem so, at first glance: his manners were most polished, his smile ready, and his handshake freely given. His mouth had, indeed, a slightly disdainful curve, and his brilliant dark eyes were rather heavy-lidded, which made them look a little contemptuous, but he showed no signs of snubbing junior officers (which rumour accused him of doing frequently), and seemed, without being over-conciliatory, or in any way affected, to be bent on getting on good terms with his people.
Like the Prince of Orange, he wore full-dress hussar uniform, but with what a difference! No amount of silver lace, swinging tassels, rich fur, or shining buttons could invest the Prince’s meagre form with dignity. In that most splendid of uniforms he looked over-dressed, and rather ridiculous. But Lord Uxbridge, tall and most beautifully proportioned, carried it off to perfection. He was forty-seven years old, but looked younger, and was obviously something of a dandy. His white net pantaloons showed not a single crease; over a jacket fitting tightly to the body and almost obscured by the frogs that adorned it, he wore a furred and braided pelisse, caught round his neck with tasselled cords and flung back to hang negligently over his left shoulder. Under the stiff, silver-encrusted collar of his jacket, a black cravat was knotted, with the points of his shirt collar just protruding above it. Several glittering orders, very neat side-whiskers, and fashionably arranged hair completed his appearance. He had not brought his lady out from England, but whether he had left her behind out of tact or from the circumstance of her being in the expectation of a Happy Event was a matter for conjecture. Two of his aides-de-camp were with him: Major Thornhill, of his own regiment, the 7th Hussars; and Captain Seymour, supposed to be the strongest man in the British Army. He was certainly the largest: he topped even the Life Guardsmen, and had such a gigantic frame that he was a butt to his friends and an object of considerable respect to everyone else.
As usual, the military predominated at the ball. Lord Hill was present, with all three of his brothers; General Maitland and Byng; old Sir John Vandeleur, very bluff and affable; General Adam; Sir Henry Clinton, with Lady Susan on his arm; General Colville, who had come all the way from Oudenarde to attend the function; Sir Hussey Vivian, with his shattered hand in a sling, but still perfectly capable of leading his hussar brigade in any charge; Sir William Ponsonby, newly arrived from England with the Union Brigade of Heavy Dragoons; handsome Colonel Sir Frederick Ponsonby, of another branch of the family, with his sister, Lady Caroline Lamb; both the gallant Halketts, Sir Colin and his brother Hew; the adjutant-general, sharp-faced and fiery-spirited; Colonel Arendtschildt, talking to everyone in his incorrigibly bad English; General Perponcher; and genial Baron Chassé, whom the French, under whom he had served, called Captain Bayonette; Baron Constant de Rebecque, a favourite with the Peninsular officers; Count Bylandt, from Nivelles; and a cluster of Dutch and Belgian cavalry leaders: Baron Ghigny, a little assertive; Baron van Merlen, a little melancholy; General Trip, a heavy man, like his own carabiniers.
Besides those distinguished personages, there were any number of young officers, all very smart and gallant, and acquitting themselves nobly on the floor of the ballroom under the Duke’s indulgent eye. Provided there was no question of neglected duty involved, his lordship liked to see his boys dancing the night through, and always made a point of inviting young officers (of the best families, of course) to his balls. They made a good impression on foreig
ners: such a nice-looking, well-set up lot as they were! But besides that, his lordship liked the younger men; he kept his eye on the promising ones among them, and would very often single them out above their elders. Colborne had been one of his favoured young men; Harry Smith, that mad boy with the Spanish child-wife; and poor Somers Cocks, who had ended a brilliant career at Burgos. ‘The young ones will always beat the old ones,’ said his lordship, and those he chose for his patronage certainly seemed to prove the truth of his dictum.
As for his personal staff, he was really fond of those youngsters. The oldest of them was Audley at thirty-five, and the rest were mere lads in their twenties, even Lord Fitzroy, at present engaged in shepherding two Belgian ladies to a couple of seats in the front row.
The Duke’s eagle eye swept the concert hall, noting with satisfaction that his family were all present, and all performing their duties as hosts to the throng of guests. A good deal of surprise had been felt in Paris at the youthful aspect of his staff, but his lordship knew what he was about when he chose these young scions of noble houses to live with him. He did not want middle-aged men with distinguished records with him: they could be better employed elsewhere, and would, moreover, have bored him. He wanted polished young men of good families, who were of his own world, who knew how to make themselves pleasant in exalted circles, and could amuse his leisure moments with their adventures, and their fun, and their bubbling energy. On an occasion such as this they were invaluable: nothing awkward about any of them; all well-bred boys who had come to him from Oxford or Cambridge (and not from any new-fangled Military College), accustomed all their lives to moving in the first circles, and consequently assured in their manners, graceful in the ballroom, conversable in the salon.
When he came in with his Royal guests, the rest of the party was already assembled. Everyone stood up, the soldiers to attention, civilian gentlemen deeply bowing, and all the ladies swaying into curtsies like lilies in a high wind. The King and Queen acknowledged their reception, the Duke gave a quick look round, saw that everything was just as it should be, nodded his satisfaction to Colonel Audley, who happened to be standing near him, and escorted the Royals to their places.
The concert began with a Haydn symphony, but although his lordship, who had a great appreciation of good music, enjoyed it, the pièce de résistance for most of his guests was the appearance of La Catalani. His lordship described her as being as sharp as a Jew, and Colonel Fremantle had certainly found her so. Nothing could induce her to sing more than two songs, and she had haggled over them. However, when she mounted the platform, she looked as lovely as any angel, and when she opened her mouth and let the golden notes soar heavenwards, even Fremantle felt that he must have misjudged her. She favoured the company first with an aria from Porto-Gullo, and then with an allegro, which showed off the flexibility of her voice to admiration. She was cheered, and encored, but there was no getting another song out of her. She curtsied again and again, blew kisses to the audience, and finally withdrew, apparently exhausted.
The dancing began soon afterwards. The Duke, finding himself standing beside Barbara Childe, said: ‘Lovely voice that Catalani women has, don’t you agree?’
‘Yes, she sings like an angel, or a nightingale, or whatever the creature is that sings better than all others. She has put me quite out of temper, I can tell you, for I had a song for you, Duke, and flattered myself I should have made a hit!’
‘What? Are you going to sing for me?’ he asked, delighted. ‘Capital! I shall enjoy that, I assure you! What is your voice? Why have I not heard it before?’
‘Oh,’ she said saucily, ‘it is not my voice which I depended on to make the hit with you, but the song!’
‘Ah, now I believe you are quizzing me, Lady Bab! What song is this?’
She looked demurely, under her lashes, and replied: ‘I am sure you would have been pleased! I should have sung for you Ahé Marmont, onde vai, Marmont!’
He gave his neigh of sudden laughter. ‘Oh, that’s very good! That’s famous! But, hush! Can’t have that song nowadays, you know. Who told you about it? That rascal Audley, was it? They used to sing it a lot in Spain. Pretty tune!’
‘Charming! Where was he going, poor Marmont?’
‘Back to France, of course,’ said his lordship. ‘Chased out of Spain: rompéd: that’s what the song’s about.’
‘Oh, I see! He was in Brussels last month, I believe. Did you reckon him a great general, Duke?’
‘Oh no, no!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Masséna was the best man they ever sent against me. I always found him where I least wanted him to be. Marmont used to manoeuvre about in the usual French style, nobody knew with what object.’
He caught sight of his niece, and beckoned to her, and patted her hand when she came up to him. ‘Not tired, Emily? That’s right! Lady Bab, you must let me present my niece, Lady Fitzroy Somerset. But you must not be standing about, my dear!’ he added, in a solicitous undervoice. Lady Fitzroy flushed faintly, but replied in her gentle way that she was not at all tired, had no wish to sit down, and was, in point of fact, looking for her mother and sister. The Duke reminded her bluffly that she must take care of herself, and went off to exchange a few words with Sir Charles Stuart. Lady Frances Webster, who had been watching him, was very glad to see him go. She profoundly mistrusted Barbara Childe, and had suffered quite an agonising pang at the sight of his lordship whooping with laughter at what Barbara had said to him.
Barbara, however, had no desire to steal his lordship’s affection. She had begun to waltz with Colonel Ponsonby; passed from his arms to those of Major Thornhill; and found herself at the end of the dance standing close to Lord Uxbridge, who immediately stepped up to her, exclaiming: ‘Why, Bab, my lovely one! How do you do? They tell me you’re engaged to be married! How has that come about? I thought you were a hardened case!’
She gave him her hand. ‘Oh, so did I, but you know how it is! Besides, Gussie tells me I shall soon be quite passée. Have you seen her? She is here somewhere.’
‘I caught a glimpse, but to tell you the truth I have been the whole evening shaking hands with strangers. Who is the lucky man? I hope he is one of my fellows?’
‘In a way I suppose you may say that he is. He’s on the Duke’s staff, however—Charles Audley. But tell me, Harry: are you glad to be here?’
‘Yes,’ he replied instantly. ‘Oh, I know what you are thinking, but that’s old history now!’
She laughed. ‘It is an enchanting situation! Do you find it awkward?’
‘Not a bit!’ he said, with cheerful unconcern. ‘I go on very well with Wellington, and shall do the same with the fellows under me, when they get to know me—and I them. What’s forming? A quadrille! Now, Bab, you must and you shall dance with me—for old time’s sake!’
‘How melancholy that sounds! You must settle it with Colonel Audley, who is coming to claim it. I daresay he won’t give it up, for I told him that you were my first love, you know. Charles, I must make you known to Lord Uxbridge.’
‘How do you do? Bab tells me you should by rights be one of my people. By the by, you must let me congratulate you: you are a fortunate fellow! I have been Bab’s servant any time these ten years—knew her when she had her hair all down her back, and wouldn’t sew her sampler. You are to be envied.’
‘I envy you, sir. I would give much to have known her then.’
‘She was a bad child. Now, if you please, you are to fancy yourself back in your regiment, and under my command. I have to request you, Colonel Audley (but I own it to be a dastardly trick!), to relinquish this dance to me.’
The Colonel smiled. ‘You put me in an awkward position, sir. My duty, and all the Service Regulations, oblige me to obey you with alacrity; but how am I to do so without offending Bab?’
‘I will make your peace with her, I promise you,’ replied Uxbridge.
‘Very well, sir: I obey under strong protest.’
‘Quite irregular! But I don’t b
lame you! Come, you witch, or it will be too late.’
He led Barbara into the set that was forming. A hand clapped Colonel Audley on the shoulder. ‘Hallo, Charles! Slighted, my boy?’
The Colonel turned to confront Lord Robert Manners. ‘You, is it? How are you, Bob?’
‘Oh, toll-loll!’ said Manners, giving his pelisse a hitch. ‘I have just been telling Worth all the latest London scandal. You know, you’re a paltry fellow to be enjoying yourself on the staff in stirring times like these, upon my word you are! I wish you were back with us.’
‘Enjoying myself! You’d better try being one of the Beau’s ADCs, my boy! You don’t know when you’re well off, all snug and comfortable with the Regiment!’
‘Pho! A precious lot of comfort we shall have when we go into action. When you trot off in your smart cocked hat, with a message in your pocket, think of us, charging to death or glory!’
‘I will,’ promised the Colonel. ‘And when you’re enjoying your nice, packed charge, spare a thought for the lonely and damnably distinctive figure galloping hell for leather with his message, wishing to God every French sharpshooter didn’t know by his cocked hat he was a staff officer, and wondering whether his horse is going to hold up under him or come down within easy reach of the French lines: he will very likely be me!’
‘Oh, well!’ said Lord Robert, abandoning the argument. ‘Come and have a drink, anyway. I have a good story to tell you about Brummell!’
The story was told, others followed it; but presently Lord Robert turned to more serious matters, and said, over a glass of champagne: ‘But that’s enough of London! Between friends, Charles, what’s happening here?’
‘It’s pretty difficult to say. We get intelligence from Paris, of course, and what we don’t hear Clarke does: but one’s never too sure of one’s sources. By what we can discover, the French aren’t by any means unanimous over Boney’s return. All this enthusiasm you hear of belongs to the Army. It wouldn’t surprise me if Boney finds himself with internal troubles brewing. Angoulême failed, of course; but we’ve heard rumours of something afoot in La Vendée. One thing seems certain: Boney’s in no case yet to march on us. We hear of him leaving Paris, and of his troops marching to this frontier—they are marching, but he’s not with them.’
An Infamous Army Page 17