Flashman's Waterloo (Adventures of Thomas Flashman Book 6)

by Robert Brightwell

  That was as far as he got before the cheering started. We were surrounded by shouts of Vive l’Empereur! and men waving swords and muskets and throwing their hats in the air. As far as I could tell, the cheering of the soldiers was echoed by the crowd beyond. Ney waited a full minute for the initial tumult to die down before he started to read again.

  “The lawful dynasty adopted by the French nation is again to be seated on the throne. It is to the Emperor Napoleon that it belongs to rule over our beautiful country. Soldiers, I have often led you to victory. Now I am about to lead you to the immortal phalanx that the emperor is leading to Paris.”

  He waved his sword above his head to signal his speech was over and the cheering was renewed and this time, the lines of men broke and rushed towards us. In a moment we were surrounded by men of all ranks, shaking our hand and slapping us on the back. Ney, wild-eyed and laughing was pushing his way through the throng, and hugging men as he went.

  One man stood out, however, as he was not laughing or cheering. It was an officer called Dubalen, the colonel of one of the infantry regiments, and he was forcing his horse through the men towards Ney. He looked livid with fury and when he got close to Ney he shouted down at him

  “Marshal, my oath of loyalty to the king will not allow me to change sides so easily. I give you my resignation.”

  “I won’t accept it,” cried Ney. “But you are free to go, get away quickly… No, leave him alone.” This last remark was to a sergeant who had heard the exchange and who was reaching up to pull the colonel from his horse. “Go, man,” urged Ney to the colonel. “Let him pass,” he added to the men around him.

  The colonel spurred his horse through the throng and reached the main street of the town. But once there, several dragoons rode wildly after him. They must have guessed that the colonel was staying true to the royalist cause and had not heard Ney’s instructions in all the noise. One of the dragoons overtook the colonel, but Dubalen’s sword flashed out and the trooper fell with a nasty wound to the head. The colonel escaped without any further pursuit. That was the only royalist I saw that day. There probably were a few among the townspeople, but with three thousand armed men cheering the emperor, they wisely decided to keep their feelings to themselves.

  The soldiery drank the town dry that night and I attended a dinner hosted by Ney at the Golden Apple. By then he was strangely subdued, but he was the only one. We had avoided a mutiny, a battle with Bonaparte and the chances of a civil war within France were receding fast. This meant that the precious skin of your correspondent looked set to be preserved for a bit longer. Some speculated on why the British had let the emperor escape and all seemed convinced that ‘perfidious Albion’ had done so through some unknown self-interest. I still could not see what and when I raised the prospect of another war against the combined might of the allies, my brother officers did not seem the slightest bit concerned. With their emperor at their head again, they felt confident that they could beat whatever the allies threw at them. They talked of battles at the end of the last war when the emperor had marched and counter marched and repeatedly beaten much larger enemy forces. There was still resentment that Paris had been surrendered to bring an end to his first reign, when many in the army apparently felt that they could still have won.

  The next morning, my hat adorned with the tricolour cockade, I joined the men as they prepared to march to join their emperor. As I surveyed the ranks I was surprised by how many tricolour-adorned helmets there were. At least half the men present had evidently tucked the old emblem away in their packs in the hope that they would need it again. The soldiers were in high spirits, but Ney, now in a more mercurial mood, dampened them down by sending them back to their barracks to smarten themselves up.

  “You will not embarrass me in front of the emperor,” he roared at them before promising to break down to private any sergeant whose company was not in good order within the hour. With much grumbling, we set off at lunchtime for a three day march, not to Chalon but to Dijon, as Ney received new orders from the emperor while his entourage continued to speed north.

  It was a strange progress for the morale of the men was higher than that of the officers. While I was happy just to be heading north in safety, Ney grew gradually more tense and irritable as he got closer to his emperor. His temper was not improved by a steady attrition of his staff. Bourmont disappeared quietly on the first night. Lecourbe, who had no plans to leave, told me that his fellow general could not stomach breaking his oath again and was going home. The next night a number of Bourmont’s officers followed his example. I was tempted to join them but thought that I might at least stay for the meeting of marshal and emperor so that I could salvage something from the experience to earn diplomatic credit.

  Ney glared at the dwindling numbers around his table at breakfast the following morning and then walked off to his room for an hour to start writing something he called his ‘justification’. When we reached Dijon that evening we found orders for the men to rest there but for Ney to join the emperor at Auxerre, which was less than a hundred miles from Paris. The marshal shut himself away again to continue his writing and the next morning he and I set off together for Auxerre. The rest of his army was left to enjoy a day of rest to repair boots and uniforms before a further march north.

  I think we both felt a sense of apprehension as we rode into the town to meet the emperor. Ney had been lost in his own thoughts most of the way and had barely spoken to me at all on the journey. When we stopped he would borrow a desk and ink and scratch away again on his ‘justification’, which now stretched to nearly a score of pages. Once when he had gone off to the privy I took the chance to read a bit of it. It started with, ‘If you continue to govern tyrannically I shall be your prisoner rather than your partisan’, and continued with pages explaining why he had found it necessary to insist the emperor abdicate before and the reasons he was obliged to abandon the king to serve him again. It was a long rambling piece with lots of crossing out and scruffy blots of ink. It seemed to me that it was more to convince the marshal that he was doing the right thing than the emperor.

  By then I had been masquerading as a French officer for nearly five months. I was well established in the role and accepted as such by all those around me. But I could not help but feel a sense of unease as the moment of meeting the emperor approached. I had been introduced to him once before, as an English spy, no less, but that had been twelve years ago at a crowded embassy reception. He must have been introduced to hundreds of people that night alone. Surely he would not remember me from that long ago. I had been a callow youth of twenty-one back then; now I was a battle-scarred veteran of numerous battles.

  As we entered the town of Auxerre many recognised Ney and cheered him as he made his way to the town hall. He was in his full uniform and word must have spread that the marshal was bringing his army to join that of Napoleon. If they had known that earlier he had been planning to oppose the emperor, they tactfully chose to ignore the fact. The town hall or Hotel de Ville was protected by huge grenadiers of the Old Guard, who, with their bearskins, looked at least seven feet tall. Their boots slammed down on the flagstones as they presented arms to Ney, but the hard look on their faces hinted that these men at least knew Ney’s loyalty was in doubt.

  Bonaparte did not keep us waiting long. Within minutes an aide was showing us up a grand staircase and into a large reception room. There we found a group of officers at the far end gathered around a large table covered in maps. As a colonel, I was the most junior officer present and no one paid any attention to us as we paced across the room. Our boots made a clacking sound on the wooden floor and spurs jingled, but not one head looked up. It was obvious they knew we were approaching, but all were waiting for the emperor to notice us first. Ney came to a halt a few yards from the group and I stood a respectful half a yard behind him. He looked awkward standing there with his justification clutched tightly in one hand.

  “Ney,” said the emperor looking up at l
ast. “I am glad that you decided to join us.” There was a wry grin at the edge of his mouth as though he realised that his erstwhile trusty marshal had been given little choice. Then he stepped around the table towards us, holding out his hand in greeting. That was when I realised quite how fat he had become. I had seen drawings, of course, and already knew that the slim, long-haired and energetic first consul I had met in Paris had become a short-haired and plump emperor. He wasn’t as fat as the king, of course – only a whale matched that level of obesity – but instead of a bit of a paunch, there was now a round pot belly straining against his waistcoat buttons.

  “It is good to see you, my friend,” said Napoleon gripping Ney’s hand. “Have you brought me many troops?” he asked although I suspect he knew exactly how many men we had.

  “Yes sire,” replied Ney shifting uncomfortably.

  The emperor turned back to the men at the table. “We should write to the king to tell him not to send us any more reinforcements, we have quite enough.” They all laughed at that with a few curious looks at Ney, for it was obvious that the emperor was also reminding him of his former loyalty.

  “Sire, I must present you with this,” muttered Ney thrusting forward his much laboured on justification.

  “What is it?” asked the emperor flicking through the first few pages. He frowned as he must have scanned the phrases about his tyrannical government as well as the explanations of Ney’s behaviour. He shook his head slightly in resignation before half turning and throwing the document on the table. “What need do I have of a justification from you?” He put his arm now around Ney’s shoulders. “We have fought together for far too long for that. It will soon be like old times with us chasing our enemies before us.”

  “But sire,” Ney started and I guessed that he felt the situation slipping away from him. He had probably planned some sort of speech along the lines of his justification, but that had all been swept away.

  Bonaparte, no doubt suspecting the same, decided to deftly remind the marshal where the power lay in the room. “Unless, my friend,” he prompted gently, “you still want to take me back to Paris in an iron cage?”

  Ney jerked back as though stung by a bee – and he had, for the bee was one of Napoleon’s imperial symbols. “No sire, I never said that.” There were some smirks around the table now, for Ney was admitting he was aware of the story. While I had been there to hear him say it, I was sure that reliable reports of Ney’s boast had reached the emperor too. A film of sweat had broken out on Ney’s brow. He might be the bravest of the brave, but it seemed he was frightened of his emperor. Bonaparte watched him with a look of mild amusement, probably relishing his control over his headstrong general, while Ney shifted uncomfortably, at a loss for anything more to say. Then of all the cursed luck he suddenly remembered me. “Sire, I would introduce Colonel Moreau, on my staff.”

  “You are most welcome, Colonel,” said the emperor turning to me.

  I had a sudden moment of panic. What was the etiquette for meeting a commanding general who was also an emperor? Do you salute or bow? Unsure, I did both, snapping to attention and then giving a stiff bow, while muttering, “Your majesty.” But when I straightened up I found Bonaparte’s eye’s boring into mine.

  It was only at that moment that I remembered. The face and the body had aged a lot since I had last seen him, at the Austrian embassy, but the eyes were still the same. They had carefully examined me back then too. Only now did I recall that at the time it had seemed as though Bonaparte had been trying to memorise my face. I had been introduced to him then by Wickham, Britain’s spy master and now here I was masquerading as one of his officers, without even the hint of a disguise. For the first time in my life, I wished for a disfiguring scar or something that would have changed my appearance. I had scars on my chest and leg, even a wound on my arse, but apart from a feint scar on my forehead, my face had survived untouched. I too felt sweat break out on my own brow. Surely he recognised me and I half expected his next words to be, ‘How is Mr Wickham?’ before ordering my arrest and execution. It was a matter of course on all sides for spies in enemy uniform to be shot. But instead, he just gave a slow nod of greeting as he watched me, more with curiosity than hostility, and then turned back to Ney.

  “Come, walk with me and tell me of your journey.” The two of them turned and began to pace up and down the far side of the room, stopping occasionally to look out of the windows as they talked in low tones. I was left there still sweating and literally shaking with fear.

  “You have not met him before, then?” said a voice beside me. I turned to see a tough, wiry man in a general’s uniform holding out a glass of brandy for me.

  “No sir,” I said gratefully taking the goblet and gulping some of the spirit down.

  “It is often like that when people meet him for the first time. I have been as close to him as anyone this past year and it still gives me a start sometimes when he remembers something I said or did months before.” He held out his hand. “Cambronne,” he said by way of introduction. I realised that this was the general that Napoleon had taken with him to Elba to command his Old Guard. “Oh, and we salute the emperor,” said Cambronne grinning. “Civilians bow.” He turned back to join the others at the table while I strolled around it to warm myself by the fire. I wanted as many people between me and the emperor as possible in case he glanced back in my direction. The fire was burning well and as I warmed my hands in the heat I looked down. In addition to the logs, a fresh wad of kindling had recently been added, which looked suspiciously like Ney’s justification.

  Chapter 15

  I felt a weight lift from my shoulders when Ney and I finally left that room. At every moment we had been in it I had half expected the emperor to wheel around and point at me, shouting ‘Arrest that man!’ But it appeared he had forgotten me for he did not give me a glance as I followed the marshal out of the door. The experience had shaken me more than I liked to admit. It was a long time since I had been in that kind of danger and now I just wanted to get away. I suggested again that I should ride to Paris, this time with messages for Ney’s wife as he was to return to his army and slowly march it north.

  “She will want to hear from you why you have changed sides,” I prompted, “rather than read about it in the Moniteur.” To my surprise, he agreed. But before I could celebrate my good fortune he mentioned that there had been some trouble in the capital with royalists turning on suspected Bonapartists.

  “My wife will have gone into hiding with reliable friends,” he told me. “It would be wise for you not to arrive ahead of the advance guard or you will not find her anyway. Some of the Old Guard will march off ahead of the emperor for Paris the day after tomorrow; you had best join them.”

  This meant staying with the emperor’s party for a day. But he now had ten thousand men, surely, I reasoned, I could keep out of his sight among them. Then once I was in Paris I could get someone to deliver the messages to the Princess of Moscow, or Madame Ney as she was known to the royalists, while I checked that my own dear wife had left the city.

  We had heard that royalists and foreigners were leaving Paris in droves, without difficulty as the Bonapartists were happy to see them go. Napoleon had publicly repeated he wanted to regain the country without spilling a drop of blood. I was sure Louisa would have headed north with the embassy staff, but I would visit the hotel first to be certain, and then head to the channel ports myself. I reached into my pocket to check that the white royalist cockade was still there for when I would need to change sides again.

  Bonaparte left Auxerre at nine the next morning. It was one of the most inspiring things I ever saw. There was a big black carriage and around fifty mounted officers in the yard by the town hall waiting for him to leave, one of whom was skulking at the back to keep out of the way. We could hear a crowd of some two or three hundred people waiting in the market place at the front of the building for a glimpse of their emperor. They gave a roar of delight as he appeared mounte
d on a white horse and the rest of us dutifully followed him out into the square. He was riding through the crowd, occasionally raising his hat to those cheering him, while he looked closely at all those around him. The rest of us rode two or three abreast in a column starting ten yards behind him. Despite my best endeavours, I had ended up further forward than I had intended, in the fourth or fifth row of men, with a colonel on one side and a major on the other. I did not know either of them; Ney had left for his army earlier in the morning.

  We were all progressing through the square when the emperor pointed at a man in the crowd and reined in his horse. The emperor shouted something I could not catch but the noise of the crowd started to drop as they wanted to listen. Then I distinctly heard him shout, “Yes you are Duroc, we were together in Italy.”

  “Yes sire,” came a voice from an unseen man in the crowd. Then the emperor called for someone to hold his horse while he dismounted.

  “Italy,” I muttered, half to myself. “That campaign was nearly twenty years ago. Surely he cannot remember a soldier from that far back.”

  The man in front of me turned around and grinned. “Yes he can,” said General Cambronne. “I have seen him do this many times, he has an incredible memory. Watch him with this crowd and you will understand why he is an emperor.”

  The crowd was clearing around the fellow I took to be Duroc. He was a grey-haired old man in his fifties, but he brought himself up smartly to attention and saluted as his emperor approached. Napoleon ignored the salute and swept forward to embrace the man in a hug as though they were long-lost friends. “This man,” called Bonaparte to the quietening crowd, “stood beside me in Italy.” He looked down at the man and added, “I saw you at Arcoli, didn’t I? You broke your arm there.”