Flashman's Waterloo

by Robert Brightwell

  While the British might have been well paid, other suppliers were not and many were pressing for payment. Money was constantly in short supply with many merchants reluctant to accept promissory notes given the precarious state of the government. Meanwhile the emperor was unceasing in his fresh demands for new units and for things to be done even faster. Davout was working around the clock and increasingly short-tempered. He and the emperor had furious rows about what was possible and most of the time I was simply glad to be out of the way, chivvying along some harassed factory owner. It must have been mid-May when I got back to my lodgings one evening to find the letter I had long feared.

  It had been pushed under the door. There was a different, unfamiliar seal on this one but, like the embassy letter, it had previously been removed so that the letter could be read and then clumsily stuck back down. With a slightly trembling hand, I broke it open. It was addressed on the outside to Colonel Moreau but inside the first words I read were ‘Captain Thomas Flashman’. Well I held the rank of major with the British but it was not that which sent a chill of alarm through my veins. Here was written proof that Moreau was a British spy and it would be my death warrant if it fell into the wrong hands. I already knew that someone other than the sender had read it. I just had to hope that it was the manager of the hotel by the embassy and no one else, for he already knew my secret. I was about to look through the window to check that my current lodging was not being watched when my eyes scanned the rest of the letter and my blood began to boil with rage.

  Captain Thomas Flashman,

  I have been appointed by His Grace to be the head of intelligence for the coming conflict. He has informed me that you are up to your old tricks of masquerading in enemy uniform. I gather that you are even using the same name as when we were together in Paris. No doubt you are spending your time shirking and fornicating as you did before, but should you find out anything useful you can send it to me via the address written on the enclosed card.

  Colonel Colquhoun Grant

  PS Don’t think I have forgotten how you abandoned me in Brest. If you are captured and shot as a spy it will be nothing less than that what you richly deserve.

  Grant the vain, arrogant dunderhead in charge of intelligence. Doubtless he had used my full name and what he thought was my army rank in the hope that his letter would fall into the wrong hands. But if it had, I reasoned, they would not have delivered it. Instead, they would have simply arrested me. Oh, I don’t deny that I had given Grant cause to hate me. If you have read my previous memoirs you will know that I was sent to rescue him, but due to his stubborn stupidity we had ended up in Paris. I saved him there too only to have him threaten me with a court martial. So I had left him in Brest, waiting for a rescue that would never come, while I escaped on an American ship. Ironically, that took me directly to a new conflict while he later managed to escape to safety. Well I decided he could go to the devil, for pigs would fly before I gave him any help. He was bound to claim any credit for himself while he would take every opportunity to serve me ill. So I burned his letter and the notes I had taken of the northern fortresses and French war preparations. I had thrown the little card with the address on into the flames too, but on impulse, I snatched it back. The corner was burnt but it was still readable. Even though it came from Grant, it seemed foolish to throw away the details of the only friendly agent I had. I hid it under a loose floorboard. With the benefit of hindsight, many lives might have been saved if I had burnt that too.

  Were it not for the fact that I knew the border was now guarded I would have left Paris then and there. But I already knew far too much about French military preparations and my absence would be quickly noticed. Men would be sent to find me. Davout despised traitors and treachery and I could expect no mercy if I was caught. The safest thing was to carry on as I was and hope for an opportunity to escape in the confusion following an allied invasion of France – for that seemed the most likely outcome. Already the allied armies around Brussels exceeded those of the French and that was before the Russians and Austrians arrived on the scene.

  Things were still moving quickly in France. At around the same time I received Grant’s letter, an election was held to approve the new constitution. It established new elected chambers of government, guaranteed civil liberty and press freedom and the emperor claimed it would form the liberal foundation of his new regime. The constitution was overwhelmingly approved, officially by one and a half million votes to less than five thousand against. The ballot was suspiciously one-sided, although most were certainly in favour. But having been passed by the people, the inauguration of the new constitution had to be marked by a grand ceremony.

  The event was called the Champ du Mai, to be held on the 1st of June. It was a huge affair with the elected representatives being sworn in, a church service and a distribution of eagle standards to regiments. Over forty-five thousand troops would be in attendance and the emperor was insistent that they were immaculately equipped to avoid any blemish to this national spectacle. So instead of worrying about my role as a spy and the downfall of France, I found myself fully absorbed into the preparations. When I could have been risking my neck eavesdropping on meetings, I was instead resolving the great brass button shortage that threatened to bring a déboutonnée scandal to the inauguration of the state. Ironically it was my diligence in this work, which was intended to keep me safe, that led to the greatest danger.

  The first I knew of anything unusual was when I was summoned to Davout with the latest numbers of the little brass circles, the numbers that had been embossed and those buttons that had been completed and distributed. I will have you know, dear reader, that making a brass button is no simple task. I was feeling quite pleased with myself for at last all the new regiments getting their eagles would be properly dressed, when a week before they had seemed destined to resemble a bunch of well-armed vagrants. The marshal gave a brief nod of approval when I reported, which for him was glowing praise.

  Then he ordered me and two other staff officers in the room to join him in his carriage for a meeting to discuss the preparations. Little was said on the journey and if the other staff officers knew where we were going they said nothing. Davout buried himself in his papers, checking that he could find any of the figures he needed easily. It was only when we went through the palace gates that I realised where the meeting was. It was at the Tuileries, which meant almost certainly Napoleon: a man I had tried to avoid for the last two months, would be present.

  “Are we to see the emperor?” I asked nervously, while wondering if there was still time to feign illness to avoid the encounter.

  “It is a state council meeting,” barked Davout glaring at me and then at the others. “You will stay in the background, is that clear?” If he thought I was ambitiously going to try to attract the imperial eye, he could not have been more wrong.

  “Yes sir,” we chorused. Never have I been more enthusiastic to obey an order for I would do everything I could to ensure that the emperor did not notice me and start to delve into his memory again.

  “You are here simply in case the emperor requires further clarification on details,” continued Davout as the carriage came to a stop. “You are only to answer questions if directly asked by the emperor or myself.”

  “Yes sir,” we repeated dutifully as we began to climb down from the carriage. We entered a marbled hall with a colonnade of pillars. I joined a group of staff officers and attendants that congregated at the edge of the room while Davout strode on to join the ministers that were standing around a large table. The emperor was not yet there, but I recognised Soult. Half of the ministers were in uniform and the rest were civilians, most in expensive clothes, some with decorations pinned to their chests or sashes. The ministers talked quietly to each other while waiting for the meeting to start, although I noticed one small fellow dressed entirely in black standing aloof from the rest. He looked like a crow standing amidst a flock of brightly coloured parrots and was watching the
others with a look of wry amusement. I realised that he was the civilian that I had seen talking to the two generals when I had been with Pauline in the Tuileries. He evidently remembered me too, for as his eyes scanned the group of assistants and staff officers at the edge of the room, he saw me and gave the briefest nod of recognition. It was the only interaction he had with anyone in the room, for the rest of the ministers ignored him. Not one spoke a word to him or even stood within a few feet of him. It was as though he had some contagion that they did not want to catch.

  There was a sudden crash of boots on the marble floor and peering around a pillar I saw two tall grenadier guard sentries standing on either side of a door on the far wall. They were presenting arms as the door swung open and I had the briefest glimpse of the emperor striding into the room before I shrank back behind the nearest marble column.

  There was very little debate or discussion. Napoleon got straight down to business with a series of questions about the Champ du Mai event, checking who would make speeches, when he would see them in advance, which regiments would receive eagles and a host of other details. If any of the ministers were vague in their replies he would impatiently demand facts; nothing would be left to chance. Davout had come well prepared with the information he needed and had easily answered all of the emperor’s questions until he was asked about the risk of an uprising in the more royalist Vendée region in the west of France.

  “I am reinforcing garrisons there, sire with another ten thousand men,” declared Davout briskly. “They will be able to quell any unrest before it can take hold.”

  “There will be no revolt,” said a new voice calmly and peering round I saw it was the man in black speaking.

  “How can you be so sure?” demanded Davout with more than a hint of aggression. He clearly did not like the man in black. “They would like nothing more than to rise up while we are engaged elsewhere.”

  The stranger ignored the hostile tone and picked at something under a fingernail before replying. “Because my emissary has convinced them that you will be beaten by the allies and that an uprising now would be an unnecessary waste of royalist blood.” There was a moment of stunned silence around the table at the suggestion of defeat, but the stranger did not seem the slightest bit concerned. He gave a weary sigh before continuing. “I would be grateful for confirmation from the marshal’s garrisons in the region, but I think he will find that the rebel bands are already dispersing. The few who stay loyal to its leader could be contained with a single regiment of dragoons.

  “The Duke of Otranto has his own methods, gentlemen.” It was Napoleon’s voice again. “Davout, confirm the rebel groups are disbanding and if they are, bring those regiments back. We need all the men we can get.” There was a rustle as the emperor checked his papers and then he asked “What of Berthier?

  “He is still in Bavaria, sire,” replied Davout. “We are not sure if our messages are getting through to him.”

  “Well send someone reliable to speak to him in person and bring him back,” snapped the emperor. “I must have Berthier; he is my right hand on campaign. He always knows what I want done.”

  “Yes sire,” replied Davout. I knew of Berthier. He was another of the old marshals who had not returned to France to re-join the emperor. He had been Napoleon’s chief of staff for over twenty years, making sure that every regiment was where it should be in any battle.

  “Now,” continued the emperor, “move those papers off the map and tell me about our enemies.”

  Davout shuffled through some of his papers before replying. “We believe that the British and Prussian armies each number around one hundred thousand men. They are spread over a ninety mile front with the British centred on Brussels,” he pointed at the map, “and the Prussians at Namur to the south-east. Half of the British force is actually made up of German and Dutch regiments and many of the Dutch forces previously fought for Your Majesty. Even some of their British regiments are new and untried in battle. The Prussians similarly have a large proportion of untested militia. The Russian army of a hundred and fifty thousand is starting to cross Prussia but it is unclear when it will arrive, while the Austrians are indicating that their army of another hundred and fifty thousand might be ready to campaign at the end of July.”

  It was a huge force of half a million men marching on France and I could not help but peer briefly around at the emperor to see how he was reacting to what seemed a death sentence to his new empire. He was staring down at the map as though he could see on it the forces slowly converging towards him. “How many men do I have now?”

  “In addition to the men guarding our borders, sire,” Davout spoke the number in almost a whisper, “one hundred thousand men.”

  I could understand now how the Duke of Otranto had persuaded the royalists to stop their revolt, for it appeared a truly hopeless position.

  “Many of our enemies are raw recruits,” said Marshal Soult, speaking for the first time, his chin jutting belligerently out as he added proudly, “while nearly all our men are veterans of at least one campaign.” He looked around challenging anyone to disagree with him, but most just stared down at the map with the emperor.

  “I need two hundred thousand men,” Napoleon said quietly as though half to himself. Then he looked up at Davout and spoke with more conviction. “You must get me two hundred thousand men. Raid every depot, replace the border forces with raw recruits if you have to, but I must have two hundred thousand men ready to attack by the end June.”

  “Attack?” gasped one of the civilians. “But sire, even if you get that number of men, you will still be outnumbered more than two to one by the forces of our enemies.”

  “It will be Leipzig all over again,” muttered one of the staff officers standing near me. I did not know it then as it had been fought while I had been in Canada, but the battle at Leipzig was the largest ever fought, then or since. Over six hundred thousand men had come together, with the French outnumbered two to one. While they had suffered lower casualties, the French had still been forced to withdraw.

  “No,” whispered another of the men. “At Leipzig we faced all of our enemies massed together. This time we will pick them off one at a time.” There was other whispering and muttering among the small group of staff officers around me. They had stiffened at the mention of action and several were grinning in delight at the prospect. One or two, though, looked worried and their concerns were perhaps expressed by the civilian at the council table.

  “Surely we should be considering a more defensive strategy, sire...” he continued, to a snort of disgust from Soult

  “When has that served us well?” the marshal demanded. “We must have the advantage of surprise and attack.”

  “What does the enemy expect us to do?” the emperor asked Davout.

  Davout glanced down at his papers, but he already knew that no answer would help him there. “I do not know, sire, but they must have confidence in their strength of numbers.”

  “They do not think we will attack.” It was the man in black, this Duke of Otranto speaking again. “In fact they are busy planning their own assault on France. The Prussians want the British to joint them in an attack during June as the cost of maintaining their huge army in the field is bringing their nation close to bankruptcy. But the British are content to wait until July. They do not trust the Prussians to observe the Vienna treaty boundaries and so welcome the fact that the Prussians will not be able to afford to raise another army for a while.” He gave a little smile before adding, “The delay also gives the Duke of Wellington more time to seduce every woman in Brussels society with loose morals.”

  The civilian burst out again, “How do you know all of this?”

  It is my job to know it.” Otranto looked the civilian in the eye and held his gaze as he added with a hint of menace, “You would be surprised at just what I know.”

  The civilian shifted uncomfortably but did not give up. “If you know that about our enemies, they will have their spi
es among us too. Many with royalist sympathies remain in France. We cannot hope to attack without our enemies being forewarned.”

  Davout looked down at his papers and appeared pleased to have some information to contribute to the conversation. “I have heard that a man called Colquhoun Grant is heading up their intelligence gathering.”

  “I knew that devil in Spain,” Soult conceded grudgingly. “Until we captured him, Wellington always knew where our forces were and where they were going. He escaped from captivity too. We will need to be wary of him.” I was annoyed beyond measure at this high regard Soult had for Grant. It was Grant’s Spanish guide León who had done the valuable intelligence gathering and he had been shot when Grant was captured. The bastard had only escaped captivity with my help – not that I could boast of that accomplishment here.

  “This Colquhoun Grant is a fool,” said Otranto dismissively and to my surprise I felt myself warming to this strange man. “Nearly all of the agents he has recruited are French-speaking from the border area. Most want France to be victorious and they are only passing on the information I give them.”

  “Ah, but you said most,” said the civilian triumphantly. “It will only take one royalist to reveal our plans. How can you stop them sending messages to the British?”

  “I have no intention of stopping their messages,” replied Otranto calmly. “In fact, I correspond with Wellington myself; he believes I am helping the royalists.” There was another gasp of astonishment from nearly everyone in the room at this extraordinary revelation. One of the men near me swore vehemently at this apparent treachery and even I risked leaning forward around the pillar to catch a glimpse of Napoleon’s reaction. He was staring intently at Otranto like a man playing cards and holding kings and wondering if his opponent had aces.

  “I trust,” the emperor said at last, “that I have more reason for confidence in your loyalty than my enemies.”