Fire and Sword r-3

by Simon Scarrow

  He looked up and nodded. ‘Very well then, I accept your condition. I will send orders to Murat to prepare the ground.’ He cleared the last morsel of meat from his plate and set it down in the grass. ‘Now let’s begin the day’s entertainment.’

  Seeing the Emperor rise to his feet the rest of the hunting party hurriedly put aside what was left of their luncheon and followed suit. The guns were brought forward as the guests were led to their posts along the slope of the hillock, where patches of gorse obscured some of the shooting stands from each other. Napoleon saw that Masséna was to his right, perhaps twenty paces off. To his left was Berthier. Across the flat marsh the distant figures of the beaters were visible on the far side, and once the signal was given they began to move towards the hillock, thrashing at the ground before them and using wooden clackers to scare the birds into flight. In case the targets should be too few, or too evasive, Berthier had taken the precaution of ensuring that a plentiful supply of pheasant and duck was held ready in small cages spread out amid the long reeds and grassy hummocks ranged before the hunting party.

  The beaters edged across the marsh, scaring up the game, and as soon as he judged that the birds had come within range Napoleon reached for his gun. One of the servants behind him pressed it into his hand and he drew it up and settled the stock into his shoulder. He took aim into the air above the beaters. Movement flickered to either side of his vision as ducks rose up from the marshes, quacking in panic.With a sharp thud from his right, Masséna took a bird on the wing and there was a little explosion of feathers in mid-air before the duck plummeted to earth.

  ‘Hah!’ Masséna called out as he handed his weapon to one of his bearers and took a loaded replacement. ‘First strike to me!’

  A moment later a bird erupted from the reeds directly ahead of Napoleon and flew straight into his line of sight. He tracked it for a second and then began to lead the target before he squeezed the trigger. Instantly a cloud of smoke obliterated his view and the butt kicked savagely into his shoulder. As the breeze swept the smoke away Napoleon saw that he had winged the duck and it flapped pathetically for a little distance, losing height before it dropped into the marsh.

  ‘One!’ he shouted to Masséna, and reached for another gun.

  As the day wore on more and more birds were frightened into the sky and were shot down by the imperial hunting party. When the beaters had exhausted the supply of birds in the marsh, they began to release those in the cages. Napoleon had become locked into a fierce competition with Masséna as each strove to score the most kills, and late in the afternoon Masséna was two birds ahead. Napoleon’s arms were beginning to ache from holding his weapon as an uncaged pheasant flapped into the air slightly to his right, warbling in panic. Knowing that Masséna would be bound to claim the bird unless he shot first, Napoleon raised his gun and tracked the bird to his right. It flew low and fast and before he realised it Napoleon had turned almost ninety degrees to the side.

  ‘Careful, sire!’ one of the bearers cried out in alarm.

  Napoleon snatched at the trigger and the weapon went off with a loud report. Almost at once there was a cry of pain and rage and when the smoke cleared Napoleon saw that Masséna was staggering back, hands clasped to his face as blood dripped through his fingers. After an instant’s hesitation Napoleon began to run across to him, and behind came Berthier, racing towards the sound of Masséna’s shouting. When the Emperor reached Masséna the marshal was down on his knees, groaning, and his bearers were standing over him. Napoleon brushed them aside. ‘Get some bandages and water!’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘And see if there is a physician in the party.’

  The bearer nodded and ran back up the hill as the shooting continued on either side. Berthier came running up, panting.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘An accident,’ Napoleon muttered. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe away the blood on Masséna’s face.

  ‘Careful, damn you!’ Masséna growled. He pulled the cloth from the Emperor’s hand and mopped at the blood streaming down the left side of his face. Napoleon could see the small puncture wounds where the shot had struck, and blood and fluid seeping from the marshal’s left eye. He heard the sound of footsteps rustling through the grass as the bearer returned with an officer, Dr Larrey, who had served with Napoleon in Egypt and Syria.

  Larrey bent over Masséna and examined the wounds. ‘What happened?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Masséna growled through clenched teeth. ‘Some careless bastard shot me in the face.’

  Larrey glanced round at the Emperor.

  Napoleon felt a surge of anger at the clear accusation. He turned on Berthier and glared. ‘It was you.’

  ‘Me? But sire . . .’

  ‘It was you, Berthier. It must have been.You lost sense of where you were aiming. It was an accident.’

  Berthier opened and closed his mouth in numbed surprise. He looked to Larrey, and then at Masséna, and shook his head. ‘I didn’t . . .’

  ‘Don’t deny it, Berthier.’ Napoleon grasped his arm. ‘As I said, it was an accident. Masséna is wounded, but he will recover. Isn’t that right, doctor?’

  Larrey was examining Masséna’s face closely, and did not meet the Emperor’s stare. ‘Yes, the marshal will recover, but he may lose the sight in this eye. I’ll do what I can to save the eye, of course. Can you stand, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ Masséna hissed. ‘I was shot in the face, not my fucking legs.’

  He struggled to his feet and Larrey gestured up the slope. ‘Follow me, sir. We’ll take your carriage back to Bayonne. I have my kit there and I can treat you.’

  ‘Let’s go then,’ said Masséna, and then paused to glare at Napoleon. ‘With your permission, sire.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Go.’

  With the doctor gently guiding Masséna by the arm, the two made their way towards the crest of the hillock. Berthier coughed. ‘Sire?’

  ‘Yes.What is it?’

  ‘Should I call an end to the shooting party?’

  Napoleon turned to his chief of staff with a frown. ‘No. There’s nothing anyone else can do for Masséna. Let the guests enjoy themselves. Except you, of course. You’ve done enough harm for one day. Return to the carriages and wait for the rest of us there.’

  For a second it seemed as if Berthier would protest, but the warning glint in Napoleon’s eye challenged the chief of staff to defy him. He drew a sharp breath, clamped his mouth shut and bowed his head before turning to stride away. Napoleon watched him for a moment, and then turned back towards his hide and called out for another gun.

  A week later, towards the middle of May, as the imperial party was preparing to return to Paris, a despatch arrived from Murat. There had been riots in Madrid and a mob had killed over two hundred French soldiers. Murat had responded by declaring martial law and ordering his troops on to the streets. Over two thousand Spaniards had been killed before order was restored. Napoleon lowered the report and stared at the staff officer who had brought it from Madrid.

  ‘Major Chabert, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Were you in Madrid at the time of the uprising that Marshal Murat tells me of ?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Well, then, explain the situation to me in your own words.’

  Chabert swallowed nervously. ‘As you command, sire. I think the trouble began with some of our men.You know what they are like, sire. They have a bit of a drink, and then begin to help themselves.’

  ‘Which is why I insisted that strict discipline be maintained, and that our men be restricted to the suburbs of Madrid.’

  A look of surprise flitted across Major Chabert’s face and Napoleon sighed bitterly. ‘I take it that Murat did not quarter his men in the suburbs.’

  ‘Well, no, sire. Many were billeted in the centre of the city.’

  Napoleon closed his eyes briefly and winced. Once again Murat had failed to obey t
he express orders of the Emperor, and thousands of Spaniards and some soldiers had died as a result.Worse still, there would be a simmering atmosphere of resentment that would make it all the harder to ensure that the junta would call for Joseph to be the new King. Napoleon’s first instinct was to recall Murat, have him brought in front of his Emperor and berate him severely. But that would only undermine French authority in Spain even further; and besides, whatever his occasional faults, Murat was his brother-in-law and had served with him from the early days. Napoleon knew that he had no choice in the matter. Murat had set the course for relations between the French army and the Spanish people for the immediate future. Any sign of weakness now would endanger whatever influence France still had over its neighbour.With a sigh Napoleon opened his eyes again.

  ‘You are to return to Murat and tell him that he is to stamp on the slightest sign of rebellion. We will not tolerate disorder. He is also to apply pressure on the junta and impress upon them the importance of offering the crown to Joseph Bonaparte at the earliest possible opportunity. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Very well. One last thing, Chabert.You are to tell Murat, from me, that in future I will expect him to carry out my orders to the letter and that if he fails me again I will replace him with someone more competent, which should not prove to be much of a challenge.’

  Napoleon hoped that a show of ruthlessness now would intimidate the Spanish people enough to prevent any further displays of resistance to the French forces stationed there. But in the days that followed news reached him of popular uprisings spreading across Spain. There were riots in Salamanca, Valladolid and Ciudad Rodrigo. The mayors of Cadiz, Cartagena and Badajoz, who had welcomed French intervention, were all set upon by mobs and butchered. The city of Seville had risen in open revolt against the French occupation and the revolutionary junta there had even had the temerity to ask the British governor of Gibraltar for arms and money to support their rebellion.

  In Madrid at least, Murat retained control by judicious use of force. While he tamed the common people he worked on persuading the members of the ruling junta to strengthen their ties with France.Those members who proved to be intractable were offered bribes and threats until they came round, and early in April the junta issued a proclamation, in the presence of Murat and a company of grenadiers, to offer the throne of the kingdom of Spain to Joseph Bonaparte.

  Napoleon felt a surge of relief as he read of the proclamation. He immediately sent for his brother, who had returned to Paris from Bayonne with the imperial party, and had not yet set out to return to his kingdom in southern Italy.

  As Joseph sat in the Emperor’s study in the Tuileries and read through the official invitation to ascend the Spanish throne, Napoleon paced up and down the length of the room. At length Joseph lowered the document.

  ‘Well?’ Napoleon crossed the study towards him and tapped the sheet of paper. ‘You see, they want you.’

  ‘In Madrid at least. I am not so sure that this sentiment is shared by the regional juntas.’

  ‘Pah!’ Napoleon waved his hand dismissively. ‘Once they learn that the Madrid junta has made this offer, and that you have accepted it, they will quieten down and follow the lead from the capital.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ Joseph responded doubtfully.‘I have heard that much of the country is in open rebellion.’

  ‘Precisely because they lack a king,’ Napoleon explained. ‘Murat has handled his role with all the sensitivity of a common street butcher. Of course the people are resentful. They see only a French army of occupation and a French marshal acting as a dictator. But once they have a king, once civil government is restored and business can resume as before, they will settle down. Then you can offer them reforms to bring their backward institutions into the modern world. They will thank you for it, Joseph, and in a few years’ time they will come to respect and love you. I am sure of it.’

  Joseph nodded appreciatively. ‘That would be something to be remembered for. Something I could be proud of, in the fullness of time.’

  ‘Precisely.’ Napoleon leaned towards him with an intense expression. ‘Well, then.Your condition for accepting the crown has been met. Now you must keep your part of the bargain.’

  ‘Yes.’ Joseph nodded, then thought for a moment and looked directly at his brother.‘There is much to be done in Spain. May I count on your support? Your full support?’

  ‘Of course, brother!’ Napoleon smiled and patted him affectionately on the shoulder. ‘No matter how long it takes, no matter how many men it takes, I swear that I will maintain you on the throne of Spain. I swear it.’

  Chapter 42

  Arthur

  Dublin, April 1808

  ‘Congratulations, my dear,’ said Kitty as she leaned forward and kissed Arthur. ‘It is no more than you deserve, and long overdue.’

  He read through the letter from the War Office once more, just to make sure. The Secretary of State for War was pleased to inform Sir Arthur Wellesley that he was promoted to the rank of lieutenant-general in his majesty’s forces with immediate effect. Furthermore, he was requested to attend a small investiture ceremony in London, and afterwards make himself available to the Foreign Secretary in order to offer his opinions with respect to the course of the war with France.

  Arthur lowered the letter on to the table and shrugged. ‘It is tempting to wonder if this might not have come a bit earlier had I not been held back by my service in India. Never mind.The promotion has come, and I am better able to serve my King and country as a result. That is the important thing.’

  Kitty had returned to her seat and was fussing over the crib where their second child, Charles, was lying, tiny fists clenched as he waved them about furiously. The boy’s birth had been one of Arthur’s few consolations since his return from Denmark at the end of the previous year. Almost as soon as the convoy had put into port he had been summoned back to Dublin to resume his duties as Chief Secretary to the Duke of Richmond. He was back at his desk early in October, dealing with the same old problems that had beset Ireland for decades. The divisions between Catholics and Protestants were as pronounced as ever.There were more absentee landlords every year and the prospect of mass starvation due to the failure of the potato harvest constantly loomed.

  Even as Arthur worked conscientiously to improve the lot of the Irish people, his mind was fixed on the political situation on the continent and his desire to serve his country in uniform again. Shortly after his return, news arrived of Bonaparte’s attempt to seize control of the Portuguese navy and every man and woman in Britain had breathed a sigh of relief when they heard of the escape of the Portuguese royal family and their warships, two days before French troops occupied Lisbon.

  Kitty cleared her throat and Arthur glanced across the table to see her watching him closely.

  ‘What is it, my dear?’

  ‘I was wondering how long you might be spending in London this time.’

  ‘It is hard to say,’ Arthur replied cautiously. He was conscious that Kitty had still not completely forgiven him for the cavalier way he had joined the expeditionary force setting sail for Denmark. He had given her no warning that he was involved with the planning and preparation for the campaign. ‘But I promise that I shall write to you often and make every effort to return to Dublin as soon as I may.’

  ‘As long as you promise that, I shall be content, Arthur.’ She was quiet for a moment before she continued. ‘You know that I miss you, and worry for your safety when you are not here.’

  ‘I realise that, my dear,’ Arthur replied patiently.‘But I am a soldier as well as a civilian official.As a husband and father, it is not always possible to balance the claims of all those duties, and those persons to whom I am obliged to give my attention.’

  ‘I wish that you would give up soldiering,’ Kitty responded with quiet intensity as she offered her little finger to Charles, who grasped it and squeezed for all he was worth, making his mother smil
e faintly.‘You have done enough active service for your country already. Surely it is the turn of someone else?’

  ‘My dear, the long years of campaigning in India are precisely the reason why I am needed in uniform. I have valuable experience of leading men, and indeed entire armies, on campaign, and in battle. My country has profited from what I have learned.Would you deny Britain the benefit of that experience now, when we are almost within the grasp of the Corsican tyrant? Britain needs every soldier that can bear arms.’ He smiled at her. ‘If you must blame anyone for the demands made on me, then let it be Bonaparte.’

  ‘Wretched man,’ Kitty responded, with feeling. She was quiet a moment, thinking. ‘What drives him to desire power without limit?’