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

by Robert Brightwell

  My mouth had gone dry and I had enough sense to realise that if they wanted to interrogate me they would hardly poison me first. So I reached forward and took a sip from my own glass. I felt some virtuous outrage would be in order if I was to maintain my pretence of innocence. “Perhaps if you did not break into their rooms, they would feel more comfortable about meeting you.”

  “You may be right, but I don’t think that either of us want people knowing about this meeting.” He looked up at the servant. “Are you sure that this was the man you saw?”

  “Certain, sir,” came the voice from behind me.

  “In that case, you can leave us.” His gaze returned to me. “I am sure the colonel will not be a problem. Wait on the landing.”

  That exchange sent my mind reeling. Where had that servant seen me before? Had they really been watching the girl’s house when I had been pretending to see them? Dear God, I thought, at any moment now he was going to bring out my letter to Wellington and then he would triumphantly reveal me to the emperor as an unmasked spy. I could expect no mercy after that. My mind was racing away to horrifying consequences so when the axe did fall it took me completely by surprise.

  “I thought we might talk about Madame Chambord.” Fouché said the words in a conversational tone but he was watching closely for a reaction.

  “Eh?” was absolutely all I could say in response. I had been expecting accusations and revelations but instead he wanted to talk about someone I had never heard of. Confusion must have replaced fear on my features and it would not have taken a skilled interrogator to realise that it was genuine. “I… I have never heard of the woman,” I managed to stammer. As the words left my lips I had a gut-churning realisation of who she might be, but I managed to hide that by furrowing my brow into an even deeper frown of indignation. “Look I don’t know what this is about, but I have had a long day and I would like to go to bed. I really do not have time to keep up with society gossip. So unless there is something else, I would be much obliged if you would take your leave.” It was a rude and impertinent way to speak to any duke, especially one as powerful as Fouché, but I realised that my only hope of surviving this encounter would be by dissembling and bluster.

  “There is indeed something else, Colonel. Fouché spoke in a measured, calm tone, like a country surgeon keeping his patient calm before an amputation. “But I confess you surprise me. Perhaps I have been misinformed and your friend Mr Hobhouse was not being watched effectively the other day after all. That will be most unfortunate for someone.” My guts did a backflip at the mention of Hobhouse being my friend and even though I swear my face did not change, Fouché noticed somehow, for he gave a little smile of triumph. “You are not going to deny knowing Mr Hobhouse, I trust, Colonel?” His eyes flicked to the door behind which his servant stood. Was he bluffing? Was this a trick to get me to admit the association or had his man really seen me talking to Hobhouse? If I had been spotted then my goose was probably cooked, but could I afford to call his bluff? I decided to hedge my bets.

  “I think I may have met a man called Hobhouse, it is a strange name. But I certainly would not call him a friend.”

  “Oh come now, Colonel.” Fouché moved his plate and underneath it I saw he had some papers. He looked at the top one and continued. “You met him at the Café Angelo a month ago and spent a quarter of an hour talking to him. I am told you spoke in English so my agents did not know what you were saying, but they tell me you acted like old friends. I suspect that you must have met him secretly at least once since then.”

  “Ah yes, I remember now.” It was poor acting and we both knew it, but all I could do was fall back on the explanation I had used in the past. “My wife has English relations; I think he is someone I met through them. We stayed in England briefly after the Revolution. That is where I learned English.”

  “I see, then perhaps you can explain this.” Fouché picked up another paper from the small pile in front of him and passed it across the table to me. At least it was not my letter, I thought, as the paper was unfolded and then I saw the words and my blood froze. For it was a copy of my message, every single word.

  Uncle Arthur,

  Overheard very senior officers talking about French attack on British and Prussian forces. They aim to invade at the beginning of July and by then will have two hundred thousand men.

  Emperor keen to have Berthier re-join him.

  Your nephew TF

  PS Regards to Madame Freese

  I felt the colour drain from my face and I probably went all the paler knowing that Fouché, the master interrogator and schemer, was watching every muscle twitch. How much did he know and what did he only suspect? “This gives away the emperor’s plans,” I gasped. It was not difficult to sound shocked.

  “Plans the emperor revealed at a meeting you were in. Then either you or Mr Hobhouse delivered the plans to Madame Chambord to be taken to the British.”

  “That is an outrageous lie! It must have been Hobhouse and he certainly did not get the information from me!”

  “Let’s not waste each other’s time, Colonel. We have been watching this man called Hobhouse for weeks. If he is a spy he is either very brave or very stupid as he makes no attempt to hide his nationality. He has not been near anyone from the cabinet meeting with the possible exception of you. Madame Chambord’s neighbour works for me. She tells me that Madame Chambord slept with a man who gave her this message and told her that his name was Hobhouse. The description of that man matches you more than Mr Hobhouse, who, my watchers tell me, has not been near Montmartre since he arrived in Paris.”

  “This is absurd. I have already told you that I do not know Madame Chambord. There were lots of people at that cabinet meeting; perhaps one sent a message through a servant to this Hobhouse, knowing he was British.” I was desperate and clutching at straws now, for the evidence against me was overwhelming. “Have you questioned this Hobhouse? Does he say I gave him the message? Perhaps the British have sent a new agent to Paris who is using his name?”

  “There were indeed lots of people at the cabinet meeting and I have files on them all. I knew that Calvet was going to try and betray the emperor before he did, which was the reason I had him poisoned. I could not have him delivering the information to General Wellington before me. But don’t worry, your message will also be delivered to add further confirmation.”

  For a moment the significance of what he was saying did not sink in. I was still trying to think of a more plausible excuse for my actions when I realised that Fouché was also admitting to giving information to the British. “What? You have betrayed the emperor’s plans to the British?”

  “Of course. Tell me, who is Madame Freese?”

  I was so shocked I nearly told him and that would probably have sealed my fate. She had been the mistress that Wellington and I had shared in India and only we knew that. It was my way of telling the British commander that the message was genuine. Instead, I just blurted out the question uppermost in my mind: “Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? If the emperor loses I want the British to know that I am helping the allied cause.”

  “But you said to the emperor that the royalists would never forgive you for signing the old king’s death warrant.”

  “They won’t but I might be too useful or too dangerous for them to dismiss easily.”

  “And if the emperor wins?”

  “I have given him ten thousand men for his campaign, which might have made the difference. And I will continue to serve him loyally.” With just a hint of irony he added, “As I do now.”

  I sat there stunned for a moment. Whoever won the coming conflict, Fouché was determined not to be on the losing side. Then another thought struck me: Why was he telling me this? I have always been suspicious of devious bastards who tell you their plans. It normally means that they are not expecting you to live long enough to interfere with them. But almost inevitably he was one step ahead of me.

  “You are wondering pe
rhaps why I am not worried about you betraying me?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “Whoever you really are, Colonel, you’re not the career soldier you pretend to be. You have no evidence that I betrayed the emperor whereas I have a lot of information and witnesses that would prove it was you.” He gave a long weary sigh. “When I was younger and an idealist I killed traitors. But as I have grown older and wiser, I have found that it is far more useful to keep them alive.” He gave me a long calculating look before continuing. “I don’t think you would dare betray me because you know it would end badly for you. So if the allies win I will be able to show that I protected their agent in Paris. You may also be interested to know that Marshal Berthier will not be joining the emperor. Two days ago he fell out of a high window in Bamberg and was killed.”

  “Bamberg, but that is in the middle of the German states. How could you know so soon?”

  “Fouché gave a cold smile. “Fortunately one of my agents was on hand with a messenger pigeon.

  “How very fortunate for your agent, if not the marshal.” I hesitated before asking my next question, but I had to know. “You told me what will happen if the allies win, but what happens to me if the emperor is victorious?”

  “If the emperor wins you will belong to me. You will be one of several people telling me what I need to know at the War Ministry.” He got to his feet, picking up the papers from the table and putting them in his pocket. “Now, I had better go as you are anxious to get to your bed.” He grinned. “Sleep well, my friend.”

  My mind was still swimming with what he had told me, but as he got to the door he turned back. “Tell me,” he said with a curious frown. “You must know him. Is this Colonel Grant really as stupid as my agents claim?”

  How I wished I could tell him that compared to his own intrigues, Grant had the addled wits of a syphilitic baboon. But instead, I tried to maintain a blank expression and replied, “Grant? I have no idea, I have never met the man.”

  Chapter 23

  I remember Grant telling me once when we were in Paris together, that he thought he could withstand torture and would never talk. Just the other week a similar ass at the Reform Club – God knows what I was doing there – told me that he thought torture of the mind was far worse than torture of the body. Well unlike those imbeciles, I have sat in a dungeon waiting for some bastard to stick red-hot metal implements where they were least wanted to make me spill my secrets. I know that I would have said whatever it took to stop the pain, whether it was true or not. It was a lesson I suspect citizen Fouché had long ago learned: intimidation and blackmail were far more reliable inducements than a henchman with red-hot pincers.

  I did not get a lot of sleep after he left. I spent most the night pacing my room trying to work out what he knew, what he was only guessing and what he might do about it. My first thought was to make a run for it, but if they were not watching me before, Fouché’s men would certainly be watching me now. I would soon have them on my tail and then Davout would have the army after me as well – my actions having proved to all that I was a traitor. Perhaps that was what Fouché wanted, a convenient gull he could blame his own treachery on if Bonaparte won.

  But I realised that if I stayed Fouché could expose me any time he wanted. While he did not have conclusive proof now, he only had to wheel out Hobhouse in front of the emperor and that deluded fool would happily tell his hero that I was once a British officer. I suspected that it would not be hard to trick Madame Chambord into confirming I was the man who deceived his way into her bed and then I would be properly sunk.

  I even began to wonder if Fouché really had sent the messages to Wellington or whether that was just a trick to get me to confess. But eventually I came to the conclusion that if he was loyal to the emperor he would just have had me arrested. It was far more likely that he was using me to play both sides. That did at least mean that I could be sure that my note would reach the British. Relaxing a bit, I realised that Fouché was unlikely to make a move until he knew who had won the coming conflict. Now that the allies had details of the emperor’s plans the odds had to be in their favour. If the British were victorious I would be safe from Fouché and the hero of the hour. I sat back and began to calm myself by imagining the honours that would come my way. I could not help but smile in that dark room as I thought how furious Grant would be at my success. If only I knew that my assumptions were built on foundations of sand.

  A week passed and I will say this about Fouché’s men, they were deuced discreet. Even searching for them, I only spotted my tail a handful of times. Mind you I was busy; preparations were continuing at a rapid pace and a growing force was amassing at the border. They had orders to break up roads into the country and give the impression that they were preparing for a defensive campaign. I almost felt sorry for some of my companions, who worked so hard on their ‘secret’ attack plans, little realising that it was all in vain… and then my world came crashing down.

  Possibly I was so taken aback by events as the moment that immediately preceded the catastrophe was equally unexpected but pleasant. It was a Sunday that it happened, the 11th of June 1815: the day everything changed. After checking on progress at an arms factory I had not arrived at the ministry until eleven. There I found a message saying that Davout wanted to see me, but it was not urgent and his aide said he would be free at two. At the appointed hour I knocked on the mahogany door of the marshal’s office. It opened a moment later but before I could enter half a dozen generals came streaming out of the room, all whispering excitedly to one another as they hurried away.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” I asked.

  Davout was by his large table on the far side of the room, halfway through rolling up a large map. “Ah, Colonel Moreau, come in, come.” Compared to his normal strict schoolmaster demeanour, he was in a surprisingly genial mood and he stopped rolling his map and dropped it back on the table where it immediately unfurled itself to lay half rolled across other papers. “I will show you this in a minute; you deserve to know what is happening. But first I have something for you. He stepped across to the huge ornate desk and picked up a small blue leather box. “It is at the emperor’s personal request that you have this. He wanted all of my staff officers to receive one. Some have them already, but you most certainly have earned yours.” He held out the box to me with his left hand and proffered his right to shake mine. For the stiffly formal Davout, this was an unprecedented level of intimacy and I half feared that he would get carried away and start kissing me on both cheeks in that awkward Gallic manner. But instead, he recovered himself and snapped, “Well open it, man!” in his more usual brusque style.

  I undid the clip, lifted the lid and could not help but gasp in surprise. For there on a red velvet lining was the pointed white cross of the chevalier rank of the Légion d’Honneur. It hung on a red ribbon with green enamel oak leaves around the cross. It was the decoration that every French soldier, of any rank, wanted and at that moment I felt truly honoured. I have the thing still and wear it on special occasions. Others British soldiers have earned them since, of course, especially for this Crimean nonsense. But theirs were issued much later and look different. I suspect that I am the only British soldier to have the cross with the profile of Napoleon in the centre. I was still staring at the bauble when Davout called me across to the map table, where he was pinning the chart down with weights.

  “This is our plan of attack,” he announced.

  “But isn’t it too early to make a plan?” I asked. “The allies could move a lot of their forces in the next three weeks.”

  Davout was smiling like a man with a secret he was desperate to share and abruptly I got a nasty sense of foreboding. “It would be if we were attacking in three weeks but we are not. The emperor left this morning to take command; we are starting the attack now.”

  It took me a full second to comprehend what he had said and then I was aghast. “But he can’t,” I blurted out. As the
implications of what this meant sank in I was appalled. I had spent ages fretting about getting a message to Wellington to warn him about the French plans. Now when I had finally succeeded the plans had changed. Instead of helping the allies I was deceiving them and leaving them more vulnerable.

  “What do you mean he can’t?” Davout was staring at me with a puzzled expression; no wonder, for the emotions struggling across my face must have been a picture.

  “Well...” I struggled to recover my composure. “What about the cabinet meeting? We only have a hundred thousand men, half what the emperor wanted.”

  “We have over a hundred and twenty thousand men and the emperor thinks that will be enough. It will have to be. He did not trust those at the council to keep his plans secret. You know that Calvet tried to warn the allies and he is uncertain of Fouché’s loyalty. So he is launching the attack now to keep the element of surprise.”

  “Oh, I am sure he will have that,” I muttered before adding, “but surely we cannot win with a force that size. The Prussians and British outnumber us by more than two to one and then there are the Austrians and Russians.”

  “That is if we fight their combined army,” explained Davout. “Look here at the map.” It was a large-scale chart showing north-eastern France and the Low Countries. If I had been expecting a complicated strategy of various corps marching in different directions I was destined to be disappointed. There was just one thick arrow drawn on it starting at Charleroi near the border, marking a straight line up the road towards Brussels. “This road marks the dividing line between the British and the Prussians,” Davout explained. “If we can get between them the British will retreat west towards the coast as they will not want to be cut off from their supplies by sea. The Prussians, on the other hand, will retreat east, back towards Prussia.”