Caulaincourt swallowed anxiously. ‘I will not fail you, sire.’
‘Good.’ Napoleon sat up and rose to his feet unsteadily. ‘Now help me to that couch.’
Caulaincourt laid aside his notebook and supported the Emperor’s weight as best he could as they made their way over to the couch. Napoleon collapsed upon it with a sigh.‘My thanks. For this, and all the services you have done me.’
‘Sire . . . I . . .’
‘Say nothing. Just leave me now. Tell the servants no one is to enter the room, for any reason. You can come back tomorrow and see . . . what has happened.’
‘Yes, sire. I understand.’
Napoleon took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Goodbye then. Now go.’
Caulaincourt hesitated for a moment, then returned to his chair to retrieve his notebook before walking steadily to the door and leaving the room. Once he had gone, Napoleon let out a groan and clutched his hands to his stomach. A fierce stabbing pain throbbed through his guts, and his entire body felt as if it was in the grip of some fever. The physician who had prepared the poison had told him it would be quick and relatively painless. Napoleon cursed him for a liar as he curled up on his side and waited for the end, the steady tick of a clock and the crackle of the fire marking the agonisingly slow passage of what time remained to him. The torment of the poison robbed him of the calm state of grace he had hoped would accompany his death. It occurred to him that this was what it must have been like for Lannes, and all those others, who had gone to their deaths slowly and in agony. There was no glory in this death, no sense of destiny, just the wretched writhing of an animal in its death throes, begging for an end to it all.
The hours passed, and death did not come, just more pain. As night gave way to dawn, and pale light crept through the gaps in the curtains of the study, Napoleon realised that he was not going to die after all. The poison, two years in the pouch, had lost its potency and had only served to deepen the humiliation to which he had been condemned. Gradually the fever passed, he stopped sweating and the agony in his stomach subsided, leaving him in despair.
At the eighth hour the door creaked open and Caulaincourt quietly entered the study, causing Napoleon to stir.
‘Sire, thank God!’ Caulaincourt exclaimed as he rushed over. ‘You live!’
‘So it seems,’ Napoleon whispered miserably.
‘Then I’ll summon the surgeon.’
Napoleon did not protest. If he was not to die, then what point was there in prolonging this suffering? ‘Call him then.’
‘Yes, sire.’ Caulaincourt jumped up, then sensing his master’s disappointment he paused. ‘Sire, you still live for a reason. Destiny must have a purpose for you yet.’
‘Really?’ Napoleon shook his head. He did not care any longer. He was too tired. He rolled on to his back and stared at the ceiling as Caulaincourt’s footsteps hurried away. If he had cheated death, then death had cheated him also.
‘Those are their final terms, sire,’ Caulaincourt reported to the Emperor three days later, handing over a sealed document. ‘The allies will allow you to retain the title of Emperor. You will be given the island of Elba to rule. The French treasury will provide you with an income of two million francs a year. You will be permitted to take a thousand soldiers with you, and any additional servants you may require. The Bonaparte family is to renounce all its other crowns in exchange for pensions provided by the French government, and the Empress will be granted the Duchy of Parma.’
Napoleon stared at the document in his hand, but did not open it. His pale skin still looked faintly waxy, as if it was stretched over his skull. The poison had left him feeling weak and apathetic and he could only stomach the lightest of meals. He lay, wrapped in a thick blanket, on a chaise longue in his study. He looked up. ‘In exchange for my unconditional abdication?’
‘Yes, sire,’ Caulaincourt nodded. ‘It was the best I could do. The Prussians were all for having you shot. I played on what was left of the regard the Tsar once had for you after the Treaty of Tilsit. It was the Tsar who offered you Elba.’
‘Nevertheless, I am to be exiled.’
‘Yes, sire. You will be required to remain on the island until the time of your death. You will not be permitted to enter into any treaty with another kingdom and you will accept a resident appointed by the allied powers through whom you will communicate with them.’
‘While this resident spies on me.’
Caulaincourt nodded.
‘I see.’ Napoleon cradled his forehead in one hand as he continued to stare at the document. ‘How long have they given me to consider their offer?’
‘You are to sign it at once for me to return to Paris. If they do not have your agreement by midnight tomorrow then the offer is withdrawn and a bounty will be offered for your capture.’
Napoleon’s lips curled at the insulting prospect of being treated like a criminal, but there was no time and no choice in the matter. He must accept.
‘Very well,’ he sighed wearily. ‘I thank you for your efforts, Caulaincourt. Now fetch me that inkwell and pen over there.’
While Caulaincourt crossed the study to the Emperor’s desk, Napoleon broke the seal and opened the treaty document. The clauses were simple and direct and a space had been left at the bottom for his signature. Caulaincourt returned and held out the pen, then removed the lid of the inkwell and offered it to Napoleon. ‘Sire?’
Napoleon gazed at the treaty with malevolence. Every point had been calculated to diminish his glory and that of his entire family. It was strange, he mused, that even offended as he was, there was no desire in him to continue the fight at this moment. Exhaustion and his recovery from taking the poison conspired to rob him of the urge to resist his enemies. Flattening the paper on the surface of the couch, Napoleon dipped the pen into the ink and tapped off the excess. He hesitated momentarily before hurriedly scratching his signature, and handing the pen back to Caulaincourt.
‘There.’
‘Yes, sire.’ The ambassador delicately took the treaty and wafted it in the air to speed the drying of the ink. ‘I’ll away to Paris immediately. When you receive confirmation that they have the treaty, you are to leave for Elba.’
‘So soon?’ Napoleon eased himself back down and pulled the covers over his chest. Elba? He recalled the island, a miserable nonenity off the coast of Italy. The allies had found him the smallest of possible kingdoms to rule. But not one person in the whole of Europe would fail to see that in reality Elba was nothing more than a prison. Napoleon closed his eyes and Caulaincourt quietly left the room.
‘Elba it is, then,’ Napoleon whispered. ‘For now.’
Chapter 51
Arthur
Toulouse, 13 April 1814
‘Do you think it might be a trick, sir?’ asked Somerset as he stood at Arthur’s side, squinting through his telescope towards the gates on the eastern side of the town. They had been opened some twenty minutes earlier, and now a small party stood a short distance in front of the defences. Through his own telescope Arthur could see that they were mostly civilians, clustered together under a white flag.
‘I think not. It seems that they want to parley,’ Arthur said. ‘After all, Soult has abandoned them. They have nothing to gain from defending the town.’
Even before dawn, Arthur’s cavalry patrols had discovered the French column, picking its way to the south-east under cover of darkness. General Hill had immediately set off in pursuit, with orders to observe Soult and not engage him. Toulouse was a valuable prize and the army needed to rest and recover from the previous day’s battle for the Heights of Calvinet which dominated the town.
‘Hm.’ Somerset slowly trained his telescope along the walls. ‘There are still plenty of cannon on the walls, and I can see some soldiers.’
‘That may be,’ Arthur muttered, then snapped his telescope shut. ‘However, there’s no harm in talking to them. Ride down there and see what they want.’
Somerset lowered his tele
scope and nodded. ‘And if they want to discuss terms, sir? What shall I say?’
‘They are to surrender, without conditions, else we will sack the town.’ Arthur paused, and then smiled thinly. ‘You might mention that we have a division of Spaniards with us who are inclined to show little pity to the French.’
Somerset looked shocked. ‘That’s hardly fair, sir. Morillo’s men are as disciplined as any in the army.’
‘Yes, but they don’t know that,’ Arthur replied patiently as he nodded towards the waiting Frenchmen. ‘Now then, don’t tarry, Somerset.’
Arthur watched as his aide mounted his horse and cantered down the slope to cross the canal that separated the Heights from the town. The Spanish corps and Beresford’s two divisions were stretched out along the Heights, on either side of Arthur’s command post, and their sullen mood was evident in the slowness with which they had roused themselves at dawn and apathetically set to digging the earthworks Arthur had ordered constructed in case Soult decided to counter-attack. Even though the French army appeared to have quit Toulouse, Arthur thought it prudent to continue the work. If nothing else, it gave his men something to take their minds off the bitter fighting of the previous day. It had cost the allies over four thousand men to take the Heights, and across the slopes, raked by roundshot and canister, were clusters of freshly dug graves. With the war all but over, Arthur felt such losses ever more keenly. Even so, all the news from the north was encouraging. Paris had fallen and Bonaparte and what was left of his army must surely be compelled to surrender soon.
The distant figure of Somerset had reined in before the small crowd in front of the gates and was engaged in conversation with a man who had emerged as their spokesman. Arthur raised his telescope to follow the exchange more closely. A moment later, Somerset dismounted and the Frenchman rushed forward to embrace him, kissing the British officer on both cheeks. A light breeze lifted the white flag behind them and now Arthur could make out a design that had been hidden in the folds, a blue fleur-de-lys, the emblem of the Bourbons.
So that was it, Arthur thought with relief: the royalists had taken over the town. A moment later Somerset was in the saddle again and galloping back across the canal and up the slope towards Arthur. His face was flushed with excitement as he reined in and swung himself down.
‘Sir, I have the honour to report that Toulouse is ours.’
‘Yes, I gathered.’
‘The mayor asks me to convey his fraternal greetings to you.’
‘That’s very fine of him, I’m sure.’
‘He asks if you will do him the honour of addressing him, and the other worthies, before entering the town.’
‘Not for the present.’ Arthur shook his head wearily. ‘There will be time for that. Tell the mayor that I would be grateful if he permitted me to set up my headquarters in his offices. When that is done I will be pleased to celebrate the liberation of Toulouse.’
‘Yes, sir,’ his aide replied, somewhat deflated. ‘As you wish.’
Arthur looked at him sternly. ‘Now then, Somerset, the war is not over, and the army must be commanded and its needs catered for. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Once we have attended to our duties, you will be free to enjoy the hospitality of Toulouse.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset glanced down towards the Frenchmen waiting outside the gate.‘What about them? They seem quite keen to greet their liberators, sir.’
‘Oh, damn it, then send Beresford. Let him enjoy the mob’s adulation if he likes.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Arthur stared towards the small crowd at the town gates.‘I’ll take my turn in Paris, when the time comes, if that makes you feel any better, Somerset.’
‘It does, sir.’ The aide smiled warmly.
While General Beresford and his officers, accompanied by several companies of grenadiers, basked in the adulation of the French townsfolk, Arthur and his staff officers entered by a smaller gate further along the wall. Somerset had arranged for one of the mayor’s clerks to lead them through the back streets to the town square. Every so often the thin young Frenchman would turn and grin and call out,‘Vive le Roi et vivent les anglais!’ and curious faces would appear at the windows and doors of the houses the small party passed by.
‘If that fellow keeps this up, we shall attract a crowd of our own,’ Arthur hissed testily.
‘You can hardly blame him, sir,’ said Somerset. ‘With the prospect that Napoleon will be forced to make peace any day now.’
The man cried out again and Arthur glared at him, to no effect, and let out an exasperated sigh. His officers read his expression and kept their silence for the rest of the short ride to the mairie.When they were shown to the suite of offices assigned to them they began to arrange the desks while they waited for the wagon carrying the army’s records chests to arrive. The sounds of the cheering carried to the heart of the town and every so often a small cluster of excited civilians would hurry by on their way to join the celebrations.
Early in the afternoon the mayor arrived, somewhat drunk, to invite Arthur and his officers to a special performance of patriotic songs and recitals to be held at the town’s theatre that evening, followed by a banquet. In the interests of cementing the friendship of the people of Toulouse, Arthur accepted, and grudgingly made arrangements to have a bath and shave while his baggage was collected from the camp. So it was that he was standing before a mirror, face lathered in soap and razor poised above his throat, when the door to the washroom was unceremoniously opened and Somerset rushed in, accompanied by another officer whom Arthur recognised as Colonel Ponsonby, from the army outside Bayonne.
‘What the devil?’ Arthur growled, lowering the razor. ‘You surprise me like that, and it won’t be an enemy bullet that takes me. I’ll die by my own bloody hand!’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Somerset thrust Ponsonby forward. ‘But you must hear the news.’
‘Ponsonby?’ Arthur frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was sent to find you directly General Hope received the officers sent from Paris.’
‘Officers? What officers?’
‘Colonel Cooke, and Colonel St-Simon of the French army, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘Sir, I have extraordinary news for you.’
There was no mistaking what the man would say. Arthur held up his hand to silence the colonel. ‘It’s peace. I knew that we would have it.’
‘Aye, sir, we’ve all expected it. But there’s more. Napoleon has abdicated.’
‘Abdicated? It’s time indeed.’ Arthur replied without thinking. Then the full truth of it struck him. Napoleon was finished. With no throne, he would no longer be able to threaten the peace of Europe. At once his severe expression was split by a wide grin. Tossing his razor down into the basin, he clasped Ponsonby’s hands. ‘Abdicated! You don’t say so?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘By God . . . by God, this is wonderful!’ He turned to Somerset and could not help laughing. His whole mind and body was seized by the most pure and irresistible delight. ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ Releasing Ponsonby’s hands, he snapped his fingers and hopped lightly from side to side. ‘That I should live to see this!’
‘Just what I was thinking,’ Somerset chuckled as he stared at his superior’s unprecedented display of jubilation.
The night’s banquet was a raucous affair as British, Spanish and Portuguese officers celebrated with their French counterparts from the town’s garrison. Just as the main course was cleared away the two colonels sent from Paris arrived, bearing the official despatch. Arthur read it through, then stood to announce to the hushed audience that Bonaparte was to leave France for ever before the end of the month. Louis, the brother of the previous king, was to be returned to the throne. As the cheers echoed round the banqueting hall he sent for champagne to toast King Louis. As the glasses were recharged General Alava, who had recently re-joined the army from Madrid, quickly stood up and raised h
is glass towards Arthur.
‘To Field Marshal the Marquess of Wellington, el liberador de España!’
A great roar of approval went up from the assembled officers and they downed their champagne. Then one of the Portuguese commanders made a new toast. ‘El Douro - saviour of Portugal!’ There was another cheer before the mayor of Toulouse staggered up and toasted Arthur in broken English. ‘To Monsieur Wellington. He save France!’
This time the cheering did not end. The officers thumped their fists down on the table in a deafening rhythm that set the remaining cutlery and glasses trembling. Arthur slowly rose at their acclamation. He bowed his head to each side, and tried to make his thanks, but it was impossible. At that moment, as he looked round at his men, it was not joy, nor triumph, that filled his heart. It was gratitude, and an almost paternal affection for those who had become closer than family to him.
Slowly the cheering subsided and then there was a respectful but expectant silence as they waited for him to speak. Arthur smiled nervously, then lowered his head and shook it gently, afraid his voice would betray the emotions that gripped him. Somerset saw his difficulty and hurriedly rose to his feet, leaning towards his commander.
‘Shall we have coffee, sir?’
‘What’s that?’ Arthur mumbled.
‘There’s been a deal of champagne drunk tonight. Some of the officers will need sobering up before they go back on duty.’
‘Yes. Coffee.’ Arthur nodded. He raised his head, and cleared his throat. ‘I, ah, thank you all, most humbly. And much as I hate to break up the night’s celebrations, it is time for coffee.’
Some groaned at his words, but most were just bemused, and happily cheered and clapped the suggestion.
As he sat down, Arthur turned to Colonel Cooke and his French companion. ‘Do you have a copy of the despatch for Marshal Soult?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then you must find him at once. Ride on, to the south-east. He cannot have more than a day’s start on you.’
The Fields of Death Page 59
