“That is quite all right, my friend.” The king’s voice was high and quavering for a man-mountain of flesh. I could not hear what was said between them after that as they conversed in low voices. But staring around the hall, I saw that I was not the only one paying an interest. Several of the other groups of courtiers were watching the encounter with some drifting towards the throne, no doubt to eavesdrop on what was being said.
As I stood upright again I noticed the steward nearby watching me with intense disapproval, but I was too curious to care. “Can he walk?” I whispered. “He must weigh, what, two hundred kilogrammes? Surely his legs cannot support the weight?”
The steward puffed up in indignation. “Of course His Majesty can walk,” he whispered at me. I must have shown some disbelief in my face for he added, “His Majesty suffers badly from gout, which is why he sometimes travels in a chair on wheels, but I can assure you he can walk when he needs to.”
There was a small crowd of courtiers in front of the king now listening to his conversation with Ney and I crept forward a few paces myself. The king’s reedy voice could be heard asking Ney to, “Do all you can to stop more bloodshed and strife for our country. It has long deserved a period of peace. I know you are a marshal I can rely on.”
Ney was conscious of the audience around him and he spoke loudly for them all to hear. “Sire you can count on me to act most energetically against the invader. I hope soon to bring him back in an iron cage.” With that, he took another deep bow and turned, striding towards me and the door beyond.
I just remembered to take a bow myself before turning. As I did so I heard the king exclaiming to those still near him, “Iron cage? I did not ask that of him. Oh, oh...” He was quite agitated at the thought, but I heard no more as I followed the marshal from the room.
Chapter 11
From the title of this packet of memoirs, you will no doubt have guessed where this account will end. Now, I have had an event-filled career and seen many battles and sights in my time from the capture of the Gamo, Assaye to Badajoz, I have stood on the ramparts of the Alamo, faced scalping Iroquois, run from Zulu impis and seen unspeakable horrors in the African jungle. But whenever I talk of my life there is normally only one incident that everyone wants to know about – especially when they discover my unique perspective on it. ‘Waterloo!’ they will exclaim all misty-eyed. Then some old dodderer will inevitably start marshalling the cutlery and showing me where those that mattered went wrong, but you will see that for yourself presently. It was a bloody and brutal business and it did change the world, but the really astonishing thing was not the battle, but the time that led up to it. How one man almost singlehandedly recaptured a country that had previously rejected him and then came deuced close to beating the combined might of the rest of Europe.
That is why I started this account where I did; it would have been wrong to just write of the days of the battle itself. For to do that, would deprive of you seeing what a truly exceptional achievement it was. It was an extraordinary time that involved the giants of my era performing incredible feats, things I would not have thought possible. If there had been any justice Napoleon would have won at Waterloo and you may be surprised to learn that the unwilling instrument of injustice was, in a large part, your correspondent. But I am getting ahead of myself now, for we must go back to when his venture looked doomed to founder at the outset.
Louisa was in bed by the time I got back to our hotel that night, but I woke her up to give her my news. She was impressed that I was to be so close to a key moment in history and agreed with me that it could set the seal on the start of my diplomatic career. We celebrated my good fortune by rattling each other in fine style – little did I realise that it would be the last time I was to enjoy that pleasure for many months.
I set off in fine fettle for Ney’s town house the next morning to start our journey south. On the way, I picked up the latest news sheet. The reports were all five days old as it took time for information to reach Paris, but it looked like Bonaparte’s rebellion would be over before we got there. The paper was full of reports from across Provence of his party being hunted by royalist forces. It appeared that he was hiding out in the nearby mountains like some renegade. Given the delay in news, he might already have been killed and captured or could even be being dragged in chains to Paris by some other ambitious commander.
“They would have to kill every one of his guard first,” said Ney when I mentioned this to him later. “General Cambronne took the cream of the Old Guard to Elba with him; they will not die easily.” He gave a heavy sigh before adding, “I would rather you be right but I fear that there will be work to do when we get there.” He gave me a sidelong glance before gesturing at the paper and asking, “Have you seen the piece on page three?”
I pulled the paper back out of my pocket and there, hidden away in the corner of the page, was a small article I had previously overlooked. Marshal Soult had resigned as minister of war. No reason was given but I guessed that he wanted no further part in operations to capture his old commander. Now the conversation I had overheard on the balcony made more sense as did the king’s assertion that Ney was a marshal he could rely on.
“Can you guess who has replaced him?” asked Ney with a wry grin. When I looked puzzled he added, “It is your old friend Clarke, back to do the same job under the king that he did under the emperor. I doubt he will have the same reluctance to capture our old master.”
It took nearly three days of hard riding to reach Besançon and thinking back, there was still no cause for any alarm. We questioned couriers travelling in the opposite direction and very few had any news. As far as anyone knew, Bonaparte and his little band of men were still roaming around in the Jura Mountains, while royalist troops were being gathered to round them up. Some men we met knew the mountains well and assured us that at that time of the year, early March, the main passes would be blocked; there was no question of him dragging guns or wagons through them. At most, some single-file tracks might be passable, but with ice and deep snow, they would be treacherous for any not familiar with them.
I was delighted. Rounding up any bedraggled survivors that might emerge from that barren terrain would be easy work. We would be back in Paris with Bonaparte in chains by the end of the month. In fact, in some ways I was even a bit disappointed with the emperor, for he evidently had not learned from his earlier mistakes. His Old Guard might be brave and loyal, but nothing destroys an army’s morale like days tramping bollock-deep in snow, whether it be on the Russian steppe or in the French mountains. Trust me; you don’t want frostbite in your nether regions.
We reached Besançon on the 10th of March, I was cold and stiff from so long in the saddle. But the marshal was eager for news and the information we quickly gathered soon dispelled any hopes I had for a relaxing hot bath. The problem with heading towards an unfolding event in those days was that you caught up with the news. A courier from the south might take five days to reach Paris, but only two or three to reach Besançon. So after no real news since we left the capital, rapidly we received a handful of reports and none of them good.
General Bourmont, the local commander, had welcomed us to the army depot and wasted no time in showing us up to his office so that we could talk in private. Bonaparte and his little army had emerged from the mountains near the town of Gap. They had covered a distance of some two hundred miles over mountainous winter terrain in just seven days. It was an extraordinary feat which had caught the royalist forces completely on the back foot. Many of them were still patrolling areas around the coast. The fifth regiment was hurriedly sent to intercept him and finally made contact just south of Grenoble. What happened there has passed into legend.
The fifth regiment was arrayed across the road in a double line with orders to stop the emperor at all costs. The five hundred men curved their line onto the hills on either side of the road so that they could all fire down on anyone approaching up the road. They must have seen Napoleon’s s
couts appear at the end of the valley and then the emperor himself on horseback with the neatly drilled lines of his Old Guard marching behind in column. They showed no concern at the men waiting for them, marching with muskets resting on shoulders. As they got closer Napoleon’s marching band stuck up the Marseillaise – a tune that had been banned under the Bourbons and which represented the Revolution and the old empire like no other. There must have been a stirring in the waiting ranks then but they stood firm and silent, watching the column come on.
When they were just three hundred yards off Napoleon called a halt to his men and boots slammed into the gravel as they stood to attention and the band fell to silence. You must have been able to hear a pin drop in the valley as Napoleon slowly dismounted and started to walk alone towards the waiting regiment. I later spoke to one of those soldiers and he described the scene. Bonaparte paced calmly towards them with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked up at the men flanking the road and gave a slow nod of approval as he moved on. He only stopped when he was a hundred yards short of the centre of the line – well within the range of every gun. The officers of the fifth stayed silent, unsure what to do. This was the man who had led them to conquer Europe. Could they really just shoot him down like a wild dog? As they hesitated, it was the emperor who called out loudly, so that all around him could hear.
“Soldiers, do you recognise me?” he shouted and as he did so he brought his hands forward and held open his coat. “If there is one among you that wishes to kill your emperor then here I am.”
At that moment one twitching trigger finger could have stopped the venture in its tracks, but none of the soldiers wanted to make that first move. My informant told me that they had talked about what they would do as they waited for the emperor to arrive. Some still felt a sense of loyalty towards him, but others feared that if he was allowed to proceed then France would fall into a bitter civil war and chaos.
“Forty-five senior men of the government in Paris have called me from Elba,” the emperor continued. “And my return is supported by three of the main powers of Europe. Already the king has left the capital. Now, my soldiers, will you stand in my way?”
It was all misleading bosh, of course, but they did not know that. Calling them his soldiers reminded them of the glory he had led them to in the past. Their emperor was now promising them peace, prosperity and above all pride in their nation and a return to their status as the respected guardians of France.
“Vive l’Empereur!” It was not clear who shouted it first but in a second the cry was taken up all along the ranks and guns were raised or dropped and men rushed forward to acclaim their new commander-in-chief.
With that moment of bluff and effrontery, Bonaparte had increased the men he had under arms without spilling a drop of French blood and for him, things just got better. As word of his proclamations spread, he was enthusiastically welcomed into Grenoble by its citizens. Thereafter, two more locally based regiments went over to him.
He promised people whatever they wanted: peace and prosperity to merchants; security of tenure to those fearing that their land would be reclaimed by aristocrats and a return of la gloire to his soldiers. He may well have promised the mayor a new town clock and a night with the empress for all I know, for he was as much a politician as he was a general.
And if you say to yourself, well, the French were fools to believe him, just think back to when you last stood before a politician’s hustings. I will wager a penny to a sovereign that the rogue promised that he would work to reduce your taxes and yet not cut any government spending that you value. He probably claimed he would improve government efficiency as though the idea occurred to him in his tub that morning and no one else had ever considered it. Yet still we vote for them and forget their broken pledges at the next election.
Napoleon was no worse and, many would argue, better, as at least he had delivered on many of his promises in the past – certainly enough for people to give him the benefit of the doubt this time. He had brought France order from the chaos of the Revolution, a legal system that they still use today, new roads and bridges, scientific institutes. I am sure someone told me that he had spent more on setting up schools across France than he had spent on the army. I doubt that is true, but if it is, it is only because he never fed his armies outside France and left them to live off the land. He had ruled France for fourteen years and was not known for dishonesty. He did lie, of course. He won every election he stood in, but winning was not enough for him and so votes were rigged to give him overwhelming majorities. He also routinely lied in his despatches about his battles, only reporting a fraction of his casualties and greatly exaggerating the losses of his enemies. But people either did not know or did not care for they knew he had popular support and they enjoyed reading about the great victories of their soldiers.
This trust was brought home to me that morning in Besançon when Bourmont, the old general who had told us this tale, turned to us and asked if any of Bonaparte’s claims were true. I was so astonished that I forgot myself and replied without deferring to Ney.
“Of course they are not true!” I exploded. “The British government has nearly bankrupted itself to get rid of Bonaparte, why on earth would they want him back?”
Bourmont looked surprised at my intervention, but Ney smoothed things over. “My aide has recently been a liaison officer with the British. Now, when did he make these claims?”
“It was on the 7th, three days ago, sir,” replied Bourmont.
“Well we both met the king three days ago in Paris and he had no intention of leaving,” said Ney calmly. “It is just some of his usual boasting. Do we know where Bonaparte is now or where he is heading and how many troops he has?”
Bourmont looked slightly reassured at that. “He is heading for Lyon, sir, the Comte d’Artois commands there. I have sent all available troops to support the comte. They should arrive in time to help with the defence of the city. We don’t know how many men the emp… I mean General Bonaparte has now, but I would guess at a few thousand.”
“Where is the Duc de Berry? Isn’t he is supposed to be in command here?”
“I believe he is still in Paris, sir,” said Bourmont awkwardly, refusing to meet Ney’s eye.
I felt the hair start to rise on the back of my neck. I have had the misfortune to be in more than my fair share of military disasters; just two years previously I had watched in Canada as the British General Procter threw away every military advantage. There had been confused leadership and a skilled and determined enemy then and this was all starting to smell familiar. Instead of a coup for my diplomatic career, I was now sensing an imminent catastrophe. Bonaparte was famous for using speed and surprise to win victories and he had done so again. He had crossed the mountains far quicker than anyone imagined possible and now was plunging through the soft underbelly of France towards its second city. Instead of rounding up a small band of exhausted soldiers and a rejected emperor, the royalists were struggling to get their troops in the right place, while their commander had not yet stirred his royal rump from the palace!
The royalists should have expected something like this and I realised with a sinking feeling that so should I. Ney’s next words did not make me feel any more comfortable.
“Well I am not going to do any good here. I will write to d’Artois and ask to be employed in the vanguard of the army, where my presence will hopefully carry some weight. Have we no troops here at all, then?”
“Just five hundred,” answered Bourmont shifting uncomfortably. “I have not sent them on as they are not reliable. They are calm in the barracks, but word of General Bonaparte’s proclamations has spread like wildfire. They have already shouted support for his return and many have removed the white cockade from their uniforms. I don’t doubt that they would throw in their lot with him if given the chance.”
“Perhaps I should ride to Paris,” I suggested tentatively, hoping for a way to slide out. “I could inform them of the urgency of t
he situation and suggest that the Duc de Berry bring as many reinforcements as quickly as possible.” Once I was away, wild horses would not drag me south again until the situation was firmly under control. But the marshal was not going to let me escape that easily.
“I suspect,” replied Ney grimly, “that there are already plenty of people riding to Paris with news. No, let’s wait until I get a reply from Lyon, then we will decide what to do.”
Bourmont put us up in the officers’ quarters while we waited for a response to Ney’s message. There was no immediate danger, but my grim sense of foreboding was not lifting. Despite his use of the relatively lowly title of comte, d’Artois was the king’s younger brother and not very humble at all. In fact, he was one of the most strident royalists and had been pressing his brother to repeal many republican laws and return land to the nobility. He had a high-handed attitude to anything republican and was probably the last man you would want to lead an army whose loyalty was wavering. The Duc de Berry was his son and if the man had any sense he would know the effect that his father’s attitude would have on the populace. It probably explained his tardiness in leaving Paris.
I took a turn about the town. There was a tension that you could almost touch. The streets were mostly deserted and when you did come across someone, they rarely looked you in the eye. Perhaps it was my uniform that frightened people for several scurried inside buildings and slammed doors shut as I approached. Whether that was because they thought I was for the emperor or the king it was hard to say.
Flashman's Waterloo Page 9
