‘Yes . . . I’ll look forward to it.’
Arthur stood up and replaced the stool at the end of the bed before making for the entrance to the tent.
‘Arthur!’
He paused and turned back.With a great effort Ashton raised a hand and pointed a trembling finger at his friend. ‘Remember, whatever else you do, I beg of you, don’t waste your life.’
‘I have no intention of wasting it.’ Arthur smiled at him, and ducked outside into the fresh dawn air, relieved to be free from the cloying, sickly-sweet stench inside Ashton’s tent. He went straight to the army commander’s administration tent and sat at his desk. The morning passed slowly as he worked through the terms of the contracts he would offer the brinjarris. As far as possible they were to operate independently of the army, policing themselves and maintaining their stocks of food. In exchange Arthur promised to protect them from the enemy and to pay them in staged cash sums for each phase of the army’s advance into Mysore. The contracts were guaranteed to run until the onset of the monsoon season, whether the campaign was over by then or not. Just after noon he set his pen down and read over the draft with a critical eye. The terms were more than fair and he could not see how the brinjarris could turn down the opportunity presented by such a favourable deal. He smiled with satisfaction, and looking up he saw through the entrance to the tent the surgeon approaching across the parade ground. Their eyes met and Arthur knew at once what the man’s presence portended. He stood slowly and met the surgeon at the threshold to the tent.
‘Ashton’s dead.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid so.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘A moment ago. He lost consciousness an hour or so earlier.’
‘Thank God.’ Arthur lowered his head to conceal the grief that theatened to break down his calm expression. ‘Thank you. I’m grateful to you for doing what you could for him. I’ll give the orders to prepare for his burial.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now please go.’ Arthur waved him away, then went back to his desk and covered his face with his hands. Ashton had died needlessly . . . pointlessly. His promise had been evident to all who knew him. One day he might have been a great general. Instead he had died for no better reason than hurting a man’s pride. It was too cruel, especially at a time when his country needed its finest officers more than ever. Arthur swore to himself that, as far as it was in his power to make it so, he would never permit such a waste of life and potential to occur again while he held a military command.
As the new year of 1799 dawned, Arthur received news that Richard and Henry had arrived in Madras to oversee the preparations for the war with Tipoo and to be ready to respond to any military or diplomatic emergency that might occur. Even though Richard had instructed Lord Clive to continue running the presidency as if Richard was still in Calcutta, he sent a coded message to Arthur to see what his younger brother felt about the idea of Richard’s accompanying General Harris on the coming campaign, in an advisory role.Arthur read the letter with a sinking heart. Much as he respected Richard’s administrative abilities, his brother was no soldier, and had little appreciation of the niceties of etiquette as regarded the military hierarchy. Harris would need to concentrate all his efforts on manoeuvring his army and fixing and destroying Tipoo’s forces. The last thing the general needed was a civilian official looking over his shoulder and offering helpful suggestions.
He picked up a pen and flicked open the cap of his inkwell, and paused. How should he phrase his response to Richard? Then he smiled to himself. Richard was family, and deserved to be addressed as such. He neatly wrote a brief note:
My dear Richard, all I can say is that if I were Harris, and you joined the army, I should quit it!
There, he thought, that summed it up nicely. He folded the paper, sealed it and added the letter to the correspondence to be sent back to Madras the following day.
Throughout January Arthur continued to drill his troops regularly and gave instructions that the men were to practise live firing. This at once drew down the wrath of the Military Board in Madras who fired off an angry complaint, copied to Lord Clive and General Harris, about his wanton profligacy with the property of the East India Company. With more than a hint of delight in the poetic justice of the situation, Harris wrote to Arthur to tell him that Richard had referred the matter back to Parliament and the Company’s board of directors for a decision.
Richard made one last attempt to negotiate with Tipoo, and sent him a letter warning him of the perils of being allied to France and earnestly entreating him to keep peace with England and the East India Company.There was no reply and the army of Madras continued to prepare for war throughout January. At the end of the month General Harris arrived in Arnee to take command of the army, and relieve Arthur.
‘No officer could have done more to prepare his men in so little time,’ he concluded after Arthur had briefed him on the measures he had taken to ensure that the army was ready to march against Tipoo.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Arthur was proud of his achievement, but now that Harris and his staff had arrived Arthur was seventh in seniority amongst the higher-ranking officers and it galled him that others would take credit for his labours. Worse still, he was now commanding only the men of his regiment, once again. A lowly line officer far removed from the direction of the war.
General Harris was watching him closely, and could not help smiling.‘You will have your chance to win recognition,Wellesley. Sooner than you think. I will not say any more at present, for fear that it might cause bad feeling amongst some of the other officers.’
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
‘You will. But you must be patient for just a little longer.’
Two days later General Harris summoned his senior officers to his headquarters. When all were present he produced a dispatch from inside his jacket.
‘Gentlemen, I have today received orders from the Governor General. The army is to break camp tomorrow and march on Seringapatam. The war has begun.’
Chapter 39
Napoleon
Alexandria, August 1798
Aboukir Bay reeked of death and destruction even several days after the battle.The beach was littered with shattered timbers and severed cordage. Bodies were still being washed up on the shore, blotched and bloated and often mutilated by the effects of cannon fire and explosions. What was left had been worried by the fish gorging themselves in the bay. In the now calm waters, wreckage floated on the surface and the masts of the ships that had been sunk rose stark and bare from their watery grave.
‘Sweet Jesus . . .’ Berthier muttered as he gazed across the scene. He opened his mouth to continue and then closed it again with a slight shake of the head.There were no words to describe the scale of the defeat that France had suffered at the hands of Lord Nelson and his fleet.
‘What was the final cost?’ asked Napoleon.
Berthier took a moment to collect his thoughts and reached for his pocket book. He flicked the pages open to the notes he had made earlier that morning after consulting the army’s chief surgeon, Dr Desgenettes. ‘Nearly two and a half thousand killed or wounded. Over three thousand taken prisoner when their ships were captured.’
Napoleon waved his hand dismissively. ‘What about the ships? How many did we lose?’
‘The L’Orient blew up.Three ships of the line were taken and burned by the Royal Navy, another nine ships of the line were captured and two frigates were sunk.’
‘And how many survived?’
‘Two ships of the line and two frigates. They escaped to the east. We haven’t heard anything from them yet.’
Napoleon shut his eyes for a moment. With one blow the English had shattered French naval power in the Mediterranean, and severed the link between Napoleon’s army and France.Very well then, he concluded, that was the situation. What mattered now was surviving the consequences. His eyes flickered open.
‘Berthier, take a note.’
‘Tell Kléber to have some boats armed to patrol the harbours at Alexandria. If the Royal Navy is still out there, it’s possible they will attempt a cutting-out raid against what is left of our fleet. Have Marmont’s brigade moved up to Rosetta in case the English attempt any landings there. Then find a small ship, something fast, and have a warning sent to our forces in Malta. The ship is then to continue to France to convey the news of Admiral Brueys’s defeat. Got all that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘There’s one other matter to deal with. I must write a letter to the Sultan in Constantinople. Talleyrand should be close to concluding a treaty with Turkey by now. If I can reassure the Sultan that we are operating in his interests, then he might not be tempted to take advantage of this temporary setback.’
Berthier paused and looked up. ‘Temporary setback, sir?’
‘This.’ Napoleon gestured vaguely towards the bay. ‘The fleet had already served its purpose, in getting my army here safely.We can, and shall, manage without them.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Berthier turned his attention back to his pocket book. ‘Anything else?’
Napoleon nodded. ‘A message needs to be sent to Ahmad Pasha at Acre. He needs to be warned off any plans he might have for joining forces with what’s left of the Mamelukes in Egypt. If we can secure an alliance with him so much the better. In the meantime,’ he turned away from the bay and gazed back in the direction of Alexandria, ‘we had better do what we can to settle the army into Egypt and win over the locals. It’s possible we may be here for quite a while.’
Leaving Kléber and Marmont to guard against any attempts by the English to further exploit Nelson’s victory, Napoleon and his staff mounted up and swiftly returned to Cairo. News of the battle had reached every corner of the city and there was a palpable tension in the streets of the capital as those who still opposed the French occupation openly rejoiced. The morale of the French troops was dangerously low now that their lifeline to their homeland was cut. Napoleon knew that the only cure for their malaise was to be kept occupied and fed a diet of rewards and propaganda. He immediately set out a list of public works and administrative measures to be carried out as soon as possible.
Chambers of commerce were set up in the largest towns of the delta, and register offices established to record land ownership and to issue birth certificates in an attempt to provide the basis of a new tax system. Napoleon was mindful that, despite the defeat at Aboukir Bay, Paris would still be anticipating fresh spoils from its army in Egypt. French engineers began projects to improve the economy of the new province by building roads and windmills, and work began on dredging the canal that linked Alexandria to Cairo. In the capital itself, Napoleon decreed that street lighting would be provided and a local police force set up. A hospital was established for the city’s poorest inhabitants and the French historians, artists and scientists who had accompanied the expedition were finally rewarded for all the discomfort and danger they had endured. The Institute of Egypt for Arts and Sciences was inaugurated in Cairo with Gaspard Monge as its president. Napoleon added his lustre to the proceedings by accepting the post of vice-president.
He commandeered the mansions of the Mameluke leaders and handed them over to his senior officers. The soldiers, distressed by the hot climate, and lacking the wine and bread they had been raised on back in France, were even more disgruntled by the lack of available women. In order to distract them from their grievances Napoleon set up a soldiers’ social club and two light-hearted newspapers. Gradually, the troops began to adjust to their new setting, discovering the pleasures of native chebouk pipes, steam baths and spiced native food enjoyed from the comfort of divans.
In order to impress upon the local worthies the technical superiority of the French regime, Napoleon ordered the officer in command of the hot air balloon detachment to mount a public demonstration and ride his balloon aloft for all of Cairo to see. On the appointed day the sheikhs and imams and their retinues were treated to a feast in shelters round an open square while Captain Conté and his men prepared their equipment.
There was an audible gasp from the French officers as Napoleon emerged from his quarters wearing a turban and silk robes over his shirt, trousers and boots. A bright sash ran round his middle, over which was fastened a sword belt from which hung a jewelled scimitar. He strode across to the largest shelter, under which Sheikh Muhammad el Hourad and his followers watched him approach, rising at the last moment to bow and make their greetings.
‘General, you honour us,’ the sheikh smiled. ‘But I confess, I am a little confused by your attire.’
‘Why, sir?’ Napoleon glanced down at his robes, and the feather in the top of his turban dipped forward and bounced off his nose. A ripple of subdued laughter went round his guests, but when he glared at them they fell silent. Napoleon turned to the sheikh.‘I was merely trying to show you that we French are more than willing to adapt to your ways.’
‘I see.’ The sheikh smiled. ‘And of course we appreciate the gesture. But tell me, why do you wear the turban of a Mameluke and the robes of a Bedouin?’
Napoleon glanced over his shoulder and glared at Junot. His aide shrugged helplessly and Napoleon resolved to give him a firm dressing down when the guests had gone. He turned back to the sheikh, trying hard not to blush with embarrassment and anger. ‘I apologise. I was badly advised. Now, please, take your seats.The food will arrive shortly, and we can talk while Captain Conté makes his balloon ready for flight.’
Napoleon and his staff officers settled on to the divans prepared for them while the sheikh and his followers resumed their reclining positions. When everyone was settled Berthier nodded to one of the orderlies and the man hurried away to the kitchens.
The sheikh watched the officers and men laying the wood in the heavy cast-iron grate below the platform on which rested the round basket which would carry Captain Conté aloft. In the centre of the basket was a funnel which led up into the envelope of the balloon itself.
‘General, can that thing really fly?’
‘Yes. I have seen it myself, back in Paris.’
‘By what magic does it work?’
‘Not by magic, but by science.’ Napoleon smiled, and then continued in a lecturing tone.‘By the principle that hot air, being lighter than the air surrounding it, will rise, filling out the balloon, and then causing it to lift, taking both basket and passenger with it. The balloon will continue to rise until the air inside has cooled and then it will descend safely back to the ground.’
‘And you are sure you have seen this work, with your own eyes?’
‘Yes.’ Napoleon replied testily. ‘I give you my word.’
‘Then I am sure it will be so, if Allah wills it.’
‘Speaking of Allah, or more broadly religion, I think it is a good time to mention to you that I have decided to enact a measure guaranteeing religious toleration in Egypt. I wondered what your views on the matter were.’
The sheikh stroked his beard. ‘I assume that you mean that Jews and Christians should be allowed to practise their rites freely, alongside those of Islam.’
‘Yes. That would seem to be the best way to encourage good relations between all the faiths. France wants peace and prosperity for all the peoples of Egypt.’
‘And would you enforce such tolerance?’ the sheikh asked wryly.
‘Indeed.’ Napoleon nodded, and his feather tipped forward again. With a grimace he quickly reached up and savagely plucked it out of the turban and tossed it on to the divan behind him.
The band suddenly struck up as the doors to the kitchens opened and a long line of servants emerged carrying platters of delicacies and exotic fruits. As the French officers and their guests began to eat, Captain Conté’s crew finally lit the fire underneath his balloon-launching platform. The flames flickered into
life and the timber crackled merrily. At first nothing seemed to be happening and then, as Napoleon watched, the balloon envelope rippled and began to fill, with painstaking slowness. After a while he lost interest in the display and idly glanced round the faces of those sitting at the tables set for the French.
In amongst them were a handful of women, and almost at once Napoleon’s gaze fell upon a slim figure with fine tresses of auburn hair. She sat at the side of a handsome young lieutenant who frequently glanced at her in open adoration. It was easy to see why, Napoleon reflected. She was the most beautiful woman he had seen since leaving France. Since he last saw Josephine, he reflected bitterly, reopening the still fresh wound in his heart.
He lowered his plate and turned to Junot.‘Who is that woman over there?’
Junot followed the direction indicated by Napoleon and smiled. ‘Ah! That is the delightful Pauline Fourès.’
THE GENERALS Page 36
