Podric Moon and the Corsican Tyrant

by Barney Broom

  Stirring from the ranks of aides surrounding Wellington, Archie had to confess the animal was his. Wellington eyed him.

  “Light, huh? In the 2nd I see. Don’t recognise you.”

  Archie mumbled something about serving on the North American station and being more recently attached to the British diplomatic delegation as a military attaché in Stockholm – theatres he knew Wellington had little knowledge of.

  “Fine specimen, damned fine animal. An Irish too. Wouldn’t look out of place in Meath. Good luck to you, sir!”

  Wheeling Copenhagen, Wellington trotted away, his acolytes following in his wake. Holding back, Archie looked down at his wolfhound. Dog’s tail wagged and his great jaw panted. Archie took a boot from his stirrup and prodded Dog playfully.

  “A day it was when you walked into my life. Guess we’d better find us some action.”

  The weather began to clear. Viewing the ground from Rossomme farm, Napoleon decided to relinquish much of the battle’s management to Marshal Ney, basing himself from La Belle Alliance at the rear of the field.

  Fighting began around 11.30am. Batteries of the Comte d’Erlon’s Corps commenced firing on Allied positions. The first feint the French made was an attempt to go around Hougoumont, but an Allied counter thrust blocked this. Napoleon’s next stroke was to get a message to Marshal Grouchy much earlier than he had in the original battle, ordering him to his side before the Prussians arrived. The emperor also attacked La Haye Sainte earlier than history records and, increasing the weight of his thrust on the Allied right, French troops attempted to punch their way through in an aggressive flanking movement.

  These attacks expanded the fighting around the Hougoumont estate. Several Guards’ companies repulsed wave after wave of French attacks. The constant pounding that the château received by French artillery caused fire to break out in a number of farm buildings and despite the previous night’s heavy rain, dust, cannon and musket smoke was dense. The fighting was intimate and bloody – sabre and bayonet clashed in fierce hand-to-hand combat.

  Arriving with his Coldstreamers to support the hard-pressed defence, Colonel Woodford was amazed to see an enormous Irish wolfhound running about amidst the chaos and carnage. Peering through the frenzied mayhem, the animal seemed to be in the very epicentre of the action, barging all and sundry away from a dragoon captain who was fighting demonically. A wagon had been turned on its side and Woodford, squinting into the light, watched as yet another wave of Cuirassiers was thrown back.

  The man and dog epitomised British fighting spirit. The hound particularly inspired soldiers. They yelled huzzahs like banshees at the faltering French who were completely bewildered by the wolfhound’s antics. The scene further astonished Woodford as he watched Dog leap on one of the attackers – a French Sous Lieutenant – but rather than attack him, the hound appeared to protect him as well! Cannon shell exploding on the side of the house temporarily obliterated Woodford’s vision. When it cleared, the dragoon, dog and young French officer had all disappeared.

  In violent struggle behind a burning hayrick, the UAR combatants fought like maniacs.

  “Nice of you to show up.”

  Archie parried a French thrust as Podric parried a British one.

  “No longer a Pole, then.”

  Archie glanced at Podric briefly.

  “I see you’ve gone Johnny foreigner this time. Thought we were supposed to be playing Boney in the game, rather than taking each other out.”

  Podric sidestepped an attack.

  “That was over in seconds. I moved forces so fast it blew him away.”

  Dispatching their opponents, they briefly hugged each other, much to the amazement of others on their respective sides!

  “He’s agreed to fight the battle conventionally given he’s got the advantage of knowing its previous outcome.”

  “Trust him, do you?”

  British and French troops now converging on Podric and Archie, a particularly vicious lunge on them was thwarted by Corporal Sturridge, serving as a regular in the Grenadiers.

  “Wondered where you’d got to.”

  Barney was having the time of his life taking on all and sundry.

  “Had to be in at the kill, sir.”

  Archie laughed but was hard pressed.

  “I can see how well suited you are to all this.”

  Another lunge, another parry.

  “Podric, are you going to wrap this up?”

  Not getting a reply, Archie managed a quick glance round but his young business partner was nowhere to be seen.

  Standing on a grassy bank near the inn known as La Belle Alliance, Napoleon’s Chief of Staff, Marshal Soult, surveyed the battlefield. A difficult task through artillery smoke, the marshal didn’t like what he saw. His fellow army commander, Ney, had committed several brigades of cavalry that charged the enemy wastefully. Whilst the Prince of Moskowa himself fought with his usual fearlessness, his forces were squandered due to the ill-considered attack.

  Scowling, Soult turned to see the emperor’s carriage pull up. A hunched Napoleon emerged from its depths. Soult didn’t wait for permission to speak.

  “Sire, the situation in our centre is precarious.”

  Napoleon put out a hand. An aide placed a telescope in it. For several seconds Bonaparte scanned the scene.

  “I gave no order to attack. This premature movement may lead to fatal results. Wellington is compromising us just as he did at Jena.”

  An uneasy mood spread amongst the French High Command. Was it really Ney’s fault? What had the emperor been doing all this time? Napoleon’s customary portable field table was set up and various tactical plans were presented. Bonaparte gave them scant attention.

  “Kellermann and Guyot’s squadrons must be deployed in order to extricate the situation.”

  “Is this your command, sire?”

  “You question me, marshal?”

  Soult bowed, turned away and began conferring with aides. Two were quickly dispatched. Apparently in no further need of communication, Napoleon withdrew into himself. Sitting down at his table, he pressed his right index finger into his left wrist.

  29

  The Final Round

  In the evening light, several carriages and broughams had gathered at a clearing beside the Ohain River. Sitting in their conveyances, a number of women recognisable from the Duchess of Richmond’s ball watched the battle from their vantage point.

  Artillery fire was still intense as fighting continued to rage in the distance. Waves of blue and red were glimpsed through smoke-filled haze, and a new colour was gradually discerned – uniforms of grey beginning to enter the field.

  An open landau arrived carrying the two young English women who had appeared so enigmatically at the ball. Parked a little distance from the rest, Cosima and Catherine were elegantly dressed and appropriately attired for the outdoors.

  Looking through a pair of field glasses, Cosima passed them to Catherine. After the latter had viewed the scene for a moment or two she lowered the binoculars. The two glanced at each other before pressing their right fingers to their left wrists.

  Weary beyond belief, the Duke of Wellington rode amongst his men – chivvying them here, berating them there. Moving towards his left flank he approached General Müffling, his Prussian liaison officer. Müffling was staring in the direction of the Bois de Ohain and the mass of grey uniforms that had now stopped in front of the woods.

  “You seem agitated, General.”

  Even with the chaos and carnage going on around them, the Prussian general appeared hesitant.

  “I am concerned, my lord.”

  Müffling was about to suggest ‘muddled orders’ but before he could say anything, a cannon exploded nearby. Wheeling their horses, the duke and Müffling galloped off to a safer position.

  ***

&nbs
p; Sitting in the parlour of a small cottage in the tiny hamlet of Merbe-Braine, a bloodied and dusty Archie Light confronted his elegant daughter.

  “What happened to playing Napoleon in the game?”

  “Podric advised he wiped him out – a no contest.”

  “Well, something’s gone wrong now. Why don’t you take Napoleon on and play him?”

  Archie looked hesitant. Cosima smiled.

  “It’s okay Dad, I couldn’t have done it either. It was all I could do to get here using UAR but when we’re done, we’ve got a whole lot more to learn about this from Podric.”

  Archie could only grunt in agreement.

  “But you’ve got to advise Zieten otherwise the Prussian intervention won’t happen – really!”

  Amazed at his daughter’s knowledge, Archie looked at her incredulously.

  “How do you know so much about Waterloo?”

  “You think I was always asleep when you wrote Napoleonic Wars? We had nothing else, morning, noon and night for six months!”

  Archie stood up and despite his stained tunic, hugged his daughter.

  “Still glad you got into this?”

  Looking at her father, Cosima’s eyes glistened.

  “Are you kidding? Ultimate Alternative Reality is the best thing I’ve ever experienced! My only problem is reality.”

  Giving him a final squeeze, Cosima stood back.

  “Now ride. You were always okay in the saddle.”

  Archie headed for the door and with a brief wave, went out.

  ***

  Lieutenant-General von Zieten was worried. Allied ranks breaking in retreat were causing him to temporarily halt the advance of his Prussian 1 Corps. Perhaps he should swing left and head for the main thrust under von Bülow as Blucher had ordered?

  Surveying the scene, the general was suddenly aware of a figure riding hard in his direction. His aides closing up to protect Zieten, a cry went up from the rider.

  “General Zieten. General Zieten! Weichen Sie nicht – don’t deviate!”

  Who was this, and speaking his own language?

  “Light, staff officer 2nd Lancers, general.”

  “You know me?”

  Zieten was stiff.

  “Hans Ernst Karl. Born Dechtow, Brandenburg 5th March seventeen-seventy. Service in Poland, eminent in the ceasefire at Poishwitz. Subsequently, integral to the withdrawal of allied troops from Bautzen. Today, commanding the Prussian 1 Corps.”

  “Wellington has remarkably well-informed aides.”

  Panting from his gallop, Archie’s horse bucked.

  “Message from Baron von Müffling.”

  “From Friedrich?”

  “Indeed, sir, the duke’s Prussian advisor.”

  “I’m aware of the Baron’s position!”

  Archie reined in his horse.

  “It’s of the utmost importance you attack immediately, Count.”

  “Count? Count?! What insolence is this?!”

  In his excitement, Archie had forgotten the man he was talking to wasn’t made Graf von Zieten by Frederick William III of Prussia till 1817!

  “Apologies, General. The battle, my mind…”

  Zieten regarded the lancer. He was probably one of Wellington’s insolent staffers, a particular breed and not always diplomatic. On the other hand, the man was au courant.

  “Very well. I will delay no longer.”

  The Prussian general turned to an aide.

  “Sound the order to advance.”

  ***

  The game of Napoleonic Wars clicked through Options.

  French troops under Grouchy attack and make a determined move of strength at the eastern section of the Allied line.

  The cursor skimmed about the game.

  The French decimate Pack, Best and Kempt’s divisions.

  Like a possessed man, Napoleon was transfixed. His eyes riveted in the game, a look of arrogant triumph played across his face.

  The move renders Wellington’s right flank insignificant, French troops pouring into allied positions. A massive artillery bombardment also pounds the British centre, utterly demolishing La Haye Sainte and the ridge at Mount St. Jean.

  He would show this twenty-first-century boy and his adult accomplice what a person of genius could do in any age.

  The Imperial Guard went through the broken gap and began rolling up Wellington’s forces. Preparing to manoeuvre light horse artillery into position, thereby prohibiting Blucher’s Prussian units linking with the British, the French are in a position to seize victory.

  There was only one Napoleon – and he would win!

  Things were suddenly reversed – French attacks thwarted by counter thrusts at their rear and left.

  Napoleon moved his finger across the microchip with ever increasing desperation.

  On screen, these lightning tactics crushed the advantages the French had won and they were again vulnerable.

  He was being outplayed.

  In minutes, it was all over. The Guard was smashed and the French collapsed comprehensively.

  In the cellar of a barn at Rossomme, Podric Moon sat opposite Catherine Halliday. He, filthy and battle-worn, still in the uniform of a French sous-lieutenant; she, stylish and cool, dressed in ladies’ day clothes and cloak.

  Podric exited the game and they both stood up. Catherine hugged him. Podric’s face was a mixture of sadness and grim satisfaction.

  30

  Farewell

  Lying in the South Atlantic, roughly midway between the continents of Africa and South America, the island of St. Helena is one of the most remote places on earth. Most of its fifty-square-mile coastline is sheer rock and due to its position, the weather experienced renders the western side of the island verdant and tropical whilst the eastern is barren and volcanic. The very severity of this isolated location was a powerful influence when, in 1815, Great Britain decided to incarcerate her most dangerous enemy there, dispatching Napoleon to its rocky shores.

  Seven years later, Louis Marchand, Napoleon Bonaparte’s valet and one of the few remaining members of his entourage, was busy preparing his master’s petit dejeuner. To Marchand, the heady days of military campaigns and palace attendances in Paris, Rome and Vienna were a dim and distant past.

  The mini court that had accompanied the emperor south on his internment had now largely returned to Europe. All had owed their success to Napoleon, but the entourage had done nothing except bitch and bicker from the moment they set foot on the island, making the emperor’s life even more miserable than it already was.

  Hearing Napoleon’s mutterings in the next room, Marchand briefly left the kitchen and entered the pantry to gather up sweetmeats and the few other little delicacies he was forever trying to forage for his master from his military gaolers.

  Looking out of the larder’s small window, Marchand saw Company Quartermaster Tweeney at the gate. No doubt Tweeney would be wanting payment for the items Marchand had recently purchased from him at such exorbitant cost. The trouble was there was so little left to barter. Most of Napoleon’s personal effects had either already been traded or stolen.

  A gig pulled up and a slim young man dressed in civilian clothes stepped out.

  “CQMS Ralph Tweeney, so you’ve pitched up here.”

  For a second, the slim youth and corpulent quartermaster eyed each other.

  “Sir…?”

  “Brother of Sergeant Don.”

  Tweeney took a step backward.

  “Sir…?”

  Putting on weight since Podric had last seen him, Tweeney’s fleshy jowls began to sweat.

  “You… know me?”

  Opening the gate, Podric Moon didn’t immediately reply.

  “You were posted here as Quartermaster of Supply having served under Sir Hudson Low
e in earlier campaigns… Yes…?”

  “How—”

  “Fought at the Heights of Toulon in ’93 alongside your brother, who was an artilleryman.”

  Approaching the house, Tweeney was severely shaken. Marchand appeared on the veranda.

  “Sergeant Tweeney.”

  Marchand’s high-pitched voice was unwelcoming.

  “With a gentleman – a new young gentleman.”

  The valet looked at Podric briefly then back at the quartermaster who was rubbing his forehead as if in a trance.

  “You appear somewhat vexed, sir. We can have nothing today. The emperor rests.”

  Longwood not being a large property, Bonaparte’s mutterings could be heard coming from an adjacent room.

  “Good day to you, citizens of King George – the fourth, is it not? Can you English not think of another name for your roi royale?”

  Fussing about, Marchand disappeared.

  Standing in the sun, Tweeney attempted to pull himself together. “Forgive me sir… You seem to know so much about me… My service… My brother and me were indeed at Toulon, but you’re a young fellow, sir. Don was killed nearly thirty years ago.”

  “You’ll have a family – some children.”

  “Oh, don’t start again sir, please.”

  Sweating, Tweeney nodded frantically. Podric handed him a silk handkerchief. Gratefully accepted, the quartermaster wiped his forehead. Podric nodded toward the house.

  “What sort of state is he in?”

  “Between you and me, sir, he’s sick, very sick. I wouldn’t give him long and when he goes, we can all say goodbye to this accursed isle.”

  Stepping onto the portico, the house was silent. Quietly opening a door revealed a simple reception room. Podric looked about. Shutters were drawn and though modestly furnished, the effect wasn’t unpleasant. Another moan arose from the adjacent room.