“The undersecretary will see you now, sir,” the flunkey announced and led the way towards a grand staircase. We were soon in a wide corridor, which I vaguely remembered from my previous visit. Back then I had been terrified, fearing execution or torture and I knew that at the end of the passage was the huge office of the minister himself. I noticed that there were now blank spaces on the walls where pictures had hung before and some busts of famous generals had been removed from the wall alcoves. I guessed that these had been depicting heroes and battles of the previous regime that were now deemed unacceptable – which made Marshal Soult’s accession to the role of minister even more remarkable. I was feeling quite relaxed when I was shown into the office of the undersecretary, which made the shock of discovery all the greater.
For a moment we both stared at each in astonishment. If the flunkey announced me I do not recall it, in fact I cannot even remember him leaving the room, but he must have done as when we did start talking we were alone.
“It is you...Moreau,” the undersecretary gasped. I think words must have failed me at that point for he then rummaged about on his desk to find the note from Wellington. “You are using the name Flashman with the English duke?”
“No, no, I am Flashman, Moreau was a false name I used before… But how on earth can you be here?” For there in front of me was none other than my old nemesis, Henri Clarke, who had been Napoleon’s minister for seven years and one of his most trusted aides. This was the man who had ruthlessly and cynically put down plots against the emperor by republicans and probably royalists as well. Yet now here he was, still a senior man under the king in his old ministry.
“You are truly British?” asked Clarke and then he roared with laughter. “My God and I had you in my office before and let you go. I learned afterwards that you were with that spy Grant, but when my men came to arrest you they found you had run.” He laughed again and added, “By the saints, I could so easily have caught you both.”
I was getting my wind back now. Thinking back to that time, I remembered the wife of a Bonapartist general who had provided us with shelter and who had later shared her bed with me. “What about Madame Trebuchet, did you have her dragged to the guillotine?”
“No,” said Clarke still smiling. “Her friends protected her, but I managed to get most of those I wanted to stand before a firing squad.”
“But I still don’t understand. How are you here? The royalists must know who you are and what you have done.”
“Of course,” said Clarke genially. “But like Soult and countless others, they need us to run the country. You must have met some of the royalists; they have no idea of government. And anyway,” he added, “I was one of those that persuaded Bonaparte to abdicate so they owe me for that. The king has graciously confirmed me as a peer of France and now I serve a new master.”
He looked as smug a bastard as I have ever met as he calmly boasted of abandoning friends and embracing former enemies to maintain his honours and station. Oh, I don’t deny that I would do the same in those circumstances, but I do draw the line at framing innocent rivals in plots to get them executed. I still remembered how he had terrified me when we had met before and I looked about the room, thinking of a way to prick his pride. “But your office is not as large as the one you had before. How does it feel to watch someone else do your old job?”
“It is merely a temporary situation, I assure you.” Clarke’s eyes glittered dangerously and I remembered, too late, that I needed this man’s help. A word from him in the wrong ear could again see me in yet more peril. He gave me a cold calculating smile before continuing and I guessed that he at least had not forgotten where the balance of power lay in this interview. “So, Major Flashman, why is the British ambassador so keen to have you recruited into the French army?”
I was not sure what Wellington had told him and I thought the little he knew the better. So I just shrugged and replied, “Well, you know, just to keep an eye on things. You can’t be too careful.”
He laughed again. “Do you take me for a fool? Surely you know me better than that. I can tell you exactly what your mission is and if you want I can even tell you how it will end.”
I had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew far more about what was about to happen than I did and so I gestured for him to continue, “Please do.”
“Wellington asks for you to be given a posting on the staff where you can judge the mood of the French army. It is obvious that he is trying to assess the level of support for the Duc d’Orleans as an alternative monarch.” He paused before adding, “Ah, I see from your face that I am right.”
“So what level of support is there for the good Duc d’Orleans?”
“You will find out for yourself, but I will tell you that most of the army hate Louis and what he stands for. They resent the changes to regimental names and traditions, they don’t like seeing their comrades disbanded and most of all they feel that their dead from recent years have died for nothing. But the question that Wellington should be asking is would the army act alone to replace Louis.”
“And would they?” I prompted. He wanted to show off his knowledge and so I might as well make use of it.
“No. Louis has been cleverer than you think. He has given all the top marshals their honours and titles to tie them into the new regime.” He gestured around his office. “As you have been so astonished to notice, even I have kept my peerage and have been given a role in his administration. Most of us, having abandoned an emperor, feel it would be distasteful to abandon a king as well.”
“So the army will stay loyal, then,” I confirmed. This was turning out to be much easier than I thought. With no plot, there was little risk and I could tool around a French army mess for a couple of weeks and then go back to Wellington with the news. I should have known that frog politics is never that simple.
“No,” stated Clarke, making me look up sharply. “I have suggested that the army will not act alone, but it is busy sending out agents to see if others will join in an attempt to overthrow Louis. Just this morning a well-known general sat where you are now asking for my opinion of the likely support for the Duc d’Orleans as king.”
I sank back in my chair with resignation as I belatedly realised that I was about to enter a complicated web of intrigue and conspiracy. “So what did you tell this general?” I asked.
“As you know over the last year this country has been invaded by you British, the Austrians, the Russians and the Prussians. Above all the people want peace and prosperity and no more invaders plundering their farms and their property. The allies have all approved and supported Louis’ claim to the throne and so, for now, the people will not want to disturb the peace.” He paused then but I was sure that there was more to come.
“So what would change their minds?” I prompted.
Clarke grinned. “I see you are learning that things are not straightforward. They will change their minds if their prosperity is threatened, particularly if the king starts to revoke sale agreements made during the time of the republic to return lands to nobles.”
“Which is exactly what the émigrés are pressing for,” I offered.
“But not just the émigrés. Some of those who secretly want Orleans as king are pressing for it as well. They know it is their best chance of uniting the country against Louis. In case you are wondering, I am one of those who is urging the king not to cancel the land sales.”
What Clarke said made sense although whether his final statement was true was anyone’s guess. I suspected he told everyone that he was on their side and in the end would do what was right for him alone. In fact, most of the senior government and army people were probably doing the same – all trying to judge which side would come out on top – and my presence showed that the British government was no different. “What a mess,” I concluded with feeling.
“I wish you luck with your enquiries, Major Flashman,” said Clarke smiling again. “And now to your recruitment. Will you be using your
old French name again in the French army? Will it be Major Moreau?”
“Yes I suppose so, no wait, I think Colonel Moreau sounds better.”
“A promotion,” said Clarke amused. “Now why would I agree to that?”
“I am sure you would not want stories of our previous meeting getting out,” I suggested. “For example details of how you let a pair of British spies escape and suggestions that not everyone you executed was guilty.”
“My ruthlessness will hardly be news for many,” said Clarke reaching for a form and dipping his pen in an inkwell. “But I will agree to your request, Colonel Moreau to show that I am willing to offer your ambassador, the duke, every assistance. I am sure he will remember me if things turn out to his advantage. Now, where should I place you so that you will be in the heart of things?”
He looked up then and was amused at the consternation that must have been showing in my face. For I was not at all sure that I wanted to be at the heart of things. With everyone scheming and plotting against each other, it would be impossible to know who to trust. A garrison posting in some country town now had far more appeal. As if guessing my thoughts, Clarke watched me like a cat playing with a mouse. He stopped writing and steepled his fingers as though considering various diabolical alternatives. Just when I thought I could stand it no longer he announced, “There is a vacancy on Marshal Ney’s staff. He commands more respect than any other general among the men. If there is to be a plot they will certainly want him on board.”
For a moment I felt relief, for I knew of Ney. I had even seen him once in Spain when he had ridden past me while I was disguised as a Polish lancer. He was by reputation more of a fighting man than a politician. He led his men by example, in the front ranks facing the enemy, and I had read that he had commanded the rear-guard on the awful retreat from Moscow. As a result, he had earned the epithet the bravest of the brave. Then I realised that while he might be one of the more straightforward soldiers amongst the general staff, if there was any fighting he would be bound to be in the thick of it. Well, I would just have to make sure that I had slid out from his command before then.
Chapter 7
When I called at the military outfitters later that day to be measured for my new uniform the tailor nervously offered me two different bolts of cloth, one white and one blue. I did not hesitate to choose the blue one. No conspirator would share an opinion with an officer in royalist white. I had a letter of appointment in my pocket with the seal of the War Ministry while Clarke was writing to Ney to announce that the vacancy on his staff had been filled.
I was in no rush to start my new duties and had to wait two days for my uniform to be completed. I spent part of that time studying the military record of my new commanding officer so I would not give myself away. I had seen him just before the battle of Busaco when he had been part of the French army invading Portugal, but that was the only battle we had shared. I had witnessed first-hand what the French had experienced campaigning in Spain and as long as no one pressed me for too much detail then I imagined I should be able to get by. I had been badly wounded at Albuera, with the scars to prove it, and I could always claim that I had missed a key event due to my injury.
Politics is a dirty business and in Paris then officials seemed to have more faces than a whole box of dice. No one was expecting the event that did befall France a few months later but there was a general feeling that change was in the air. Everyone was hedging their bets and none more so than the journalists and editors of the main news sheets. While they contained fawning accounts of affairs at court and fulsome praise of the king, the writers were also careful to include detailed accounts of the visits by the Duc d’Orleans to regimental barracks, hospitals and also inflammatory speeches from various aristocratic agitators calling for the return of their property. On top of that, there were reports of a royalist officer found floating face down in the Seine downstream of Paris, with the more scandalous papers in full cry at his apparent murder. Meanwhile, an émigré was in court accused of burning down his former home with some of the occupants still trapped inside when he was refused the right to reclaim his old property.
Oh yes, the political cauldron of Paris was well on the boil back then, and about to be tossed into the stew was your humble obedient servant. I read every news sheet with a mounting sense of agitation. But unlike my previous adventures, instead of being able to hide out in some funk hole, I was expected to return back to my hotel each evening for tea and muffins with my family. Louisa was blithely unconcerned at any risk, which compared to my earlier exploits on various battlefields, did seem insignificant. But I had the recent memory of very real danger when involved in plots in Paris. I knew a stranger asking too many questions in the wrong place was asking for a blade between the ribs. But I could not show fear especially in front of my son. He was now asking for me for bloodthirsty tales of all my previous battles and gazing at me in wide-eyed wonder as I made most of them up.
Everything was a bit unreal back then, but I was brought back down to earth the day after my new uniform arrived, when a message was delivered to my hotel from Clarke. It advised that Michel Ney, Marshal of France, Prince of Moscow and Duc d’Elchingen had invited his newest staff officer to join him in a ride along the Champ du Mars at dawn the following morning.
The Champ du Mars was a huge park in Paris just by the military school. Few people promenaded there early on a cold October morning and so it was a good place to exercise a horse as well as get the measure of a new subordinate. I was up promptly the next day donning the unfamiliar blue cloth coat and staring at my candlelit reflection in a mirror. It looked like some costume I was about to wear on a stage, and I supposed that in a way that was exactly what I was about to do. There were just a few night soil carts and early tradespeople on the streets as I rode slowly towards the park. The meeting point was a statue of the Roman God Mars. I knew precisely where it was as I had taken little Thomas there the previous afternoon to reconnoitre the area after receiving the message. There had been troops of soldiers parading down the wide paths then, with a royalist officer encouraging the sparse crowd to shout “Vive le Roi!” as they went past. There was only a desultory cheer; more noise was made by a band of grubby urchins who ran alongside the soldiers mocking the monarch’s wide girth by yelling, “Vive le dumpling!” instead.
I arrived early; it did not do to keep a marshal of France waiting. The statue stood in a little recess in the trees lining the main thoroughfare through the park. There was an early morning mist, but as far as I could see the path was deserted in both directions. I dismounted and tied the reins to the railing surrounding the ancient god of war, who glared angrily back at my impertinence. It was only when I stepped out in the centre of the path that it occurred to me that if someone intended me ill, then this would be an ideal place for an ambush. I immediately tried to dismiss the unwelcome thought.
While some might find me irritating, surely Ney would not have me assassinated without meeting me first – I had given him no cause for concern. I tried to reassure myself that it was perfectly normal for the marshal to ride out in the park first thing in the morning. I knew he was a cavalryman, having started out as a humble trooper in a royal hussar regiment. The Revolution had given him the opportunity to demonstrate his courage and leadership abilities and he was made a general within twelve years of joining the army. He probably rode every day for exercise and now when the park was empty would be the ideal time. No, I reassured myself, everything I had read about him indicated that he was not the sort of man to have someone killed without good cause. No sooner was the thought in my head than I heard a twig snap in the trees across the path from the statue.
I tensed and without consciously thinking about it, my hand dropped down to the hilt of my sword. I cursed myself for not bringing any pistols, but I could hardly turn up to a meeting with a French marshal as his new staff officer with a brace of barkers stuffed into my belt. I was supposed to be a French officer, safe and secur
e in the French capital, for heaven’s sake. I took a deep breath to steady myself and stared once more up and down the path. Still no one was in view. There had to be lots of wild animals in the woods – that was surely what I had heard. I could hardly flee down the path to encounter the marshal known as the bravest of the brave and admit that I had been scared away by a clumsy rabbit! No, I had to stand firm.
I reminded myself again that Ney was not known for treachery, but then I remembered who had arranged this meeting. Clarke would stab his own grandmother in the back if he thought he would benefit. I only had his word that Ney wanted to meet here; he could easily have sold me out to the Orleanist faction within the army. Then I heard more twigs break in the trees ahead, this time three or four clear snaps of wood in quick succession. You don’t get to be a poltroon of my experience without a strong sense for self-preservation. Instinctively I knew that the branches had been broken deliberately to attract my attention. I felt a prickle of fear shoot up my back as I knew with certainty that someone was coming up behind me. I imagined a muzzle being pointed at my exposed back and knew that I had to at least put them off their aim before I bolted into the trees. Years of reacting in blind terror stood me in good stead now as I started to move. I twisted fast and low to my right while whipping my sword from its scabbard and slashing the tip forward towards the chest of the figure I saw from the corner of my eye standing just three yards behind me.
Flashman's Waterloo (Adventures of Thomas Flashman Book 6) Page 5
