True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  They rode slowly for ten minutes, the silence broken only to acknowledge acquaintances as they passed. At the end of this time, Moss turned to his companion – in spite of a smaller horse their faces were level. ‘Spain, eh,’ he said, nodding to himself with a look of fixed intent. ‘Good.’ There seemed to be no more for a while, but Sir Richard waited, knowing that Moss was not listening and anyway never one for needless talk. ‘Any idea of who will be in charge?’

  Sir Richard Langley smiled, the tight skin of his long face fracturing into a web of wrinkles. ‘Ah, now that I do know.’ There was open ground ahead of them and he kicked his horse straight into a canter. Moss instinctively followed and found himself laughing as the strong mare pounded across the firm grass.

  ‘Damn you, sirs! Damn you all to hell! Is this the pledged word of England?’ The little man’s English was excellent, until his fury grew too incandescent and he could express it only in Spanish far too rapid and heavily accented for Sir Arthur Wellesley and his companions to follow. General Francisco Miranda had come to London from Venezuela to persuade the British to help him raise rebellion in Spain’s American possessions. That aid had been promised, and Wellesley appointed to lead a strong British expeditionary force. They had met several times to plan the enterprise. Now, at the last minute, Britain’s government had changed its mind.

  ‘You betray us!’ Miranda reverted to English, his voice lower, but more precise as he controlled his rage. ‘You betray freedom itself! God will judge you for this treachery. You will be lost!’ The last words were bellowed as once again the anger overcame him and he stalked off down the street.

  The British had deliberately arranged to meet the general and his followers in the street, hoping that this would prevent too unpleasant a scene. It had not gone entirely to plan, and more than a few passers-by had paused to watch the gaudily uniformed man’s explosion of anger. Wellesley did not blame the would-be revolutionary.

  ‘He is angry enough to lead a revolt on his own,’ said one of his companions, both civilians sent by the government.

  ‘If they do, then well and good,’ said Wellesley. The government men looked at him, but already knew him sufficiently to understand that he was unlikely to expand on this comment. In truth he had been uncomfortable with the plan from the very start. To raise a people to revolution seemed too great a responsibility, for so many things could go wrong and there was no knowing where such impulses would stop. Yet the command was still a command, and any chance of active service was better than the drudgery of administration in Ireland. Apart from that, he was nimmukwallah – even in thought he liked using the Indian word. He was the government’s man, had eaten their salt and was duty bound to go where they sent him.

  The night after that uncomfortable episode, he sat in contented silence in his house in Harley Street. There was great relief that the South American adventure had been cancelled, and far greater satisfaction that he and his army were to be put to better use in Europe itself. Whether in Spain or Portugal was yet to be decided, but the former seemed more likely, and it would no doubt enrage General Miranda even more to know that the troops once promised to him were now likely to find themselves fighting alongside the Spanish.

  His command of the force waiting at Cork had been formally confirmed, whatever its final destination, and many of his London friends had gathered to dine the previous night in celebration. Their host, Sir Jonah Barrington, plump and red faced, his speech slurred before the evening was half over, had done a good job and enjoyed himself immensely. There was a brief moment of discomfort when he talked of the previous year’s attack on Copenhagen as ‘robbery and murder’. Wellesley had led a brigade in that expedition, something which Sir Jonah had only then remembered. His cheeks grew even more ruddy, and an apology formed. Wellesley had smiled at his old friend, and asked aloud whether the latter also suspected him of purloining some of his spoons. The host shamefacedly joined in the guffaws of laughter and the awkwardness quickly passed.

  It was hard to be proud of the whole Danish affair. Britain had demanded that the Danes hand over their powerful fleet of well-built warships to prevent them from falling into Napoleon’s hands. Neutral Denmark had not unreasonably refused, and so Britain had used force, bombardopenhagen until the Danes surrendered and the ships were destroyed or taken. ‘Robbery and murder’ just about summed it up, but Wellesley saw that if it was a crime, then it was a necessary one. Bonaparte would in time no doubt have ridden just as roughshod over Danish neutrality, and grabbing the Danish fleet might just have allowed him to challenge the Royal Navy’s dominance. The government had been right to act. Even so, he was nimmukwallah. At least the short and one-sided campaign had been well run, and offered a break from the drudgery of administration in Dublin.

  Tonight’s supper had been a quieter affair, with just a single guest joining Sir Arthur and Lady Wellesley. John Wilson Croker was a friend and ally from Ireland, and after Kitty had retired the two men plunged into business, running through the details of improvements to Dublin’s water supply. That settled, Sir Arthur fell silent, staring into the fire, which was a comfort on an unusually cold spring evening. The shadows added to the sharpness of his face, and most of all his great beaked nose. Croker had similar pale grey eyes, a nose almost as hooked, but there the resemblance ended, for his lips and chin were weak. Few people trusted him until they knew him well – and some not even then. Wellesley commanded confidence and respect of a different sort, and even at rest his friend saw an intent concentration in him which he had never seen in anyone else. For a good twenty minutes Croker said nothing, savouring the taste of an excellent brandy and allowing his companion to pursue his own thoughts. Only then did he break the silence.

  ‘Sir Arthur, as a lawyer I always endeavour to know that I shall win a case before it reaches court. I should imagine that a soldier’s struggle is similar. You must be giving great thought to confronting Bonaparte’s men.’

  Wellesley looked up sharply, fixing his gaze on his friend, and then gave the faintest of smiles. In fact his mind had been wandering more over the past few years, the disappointment of returning from victories in India to dull years of monotonous work. Indian reputations were ten a penny, almost a disadvantage in the army, especially since most of the men making decisions could not match them with achievements of their own. Marriage had proved a disappointment. Whether or not Kitty had changed in the years he had been away, he had certainly changed too much. Honour commanded that he marry, but they were now utterly unsuited. Nimmukwallah, once again, although this time duty bound to a wife he no longer loved or even respected. The last few months offered hope at last of serious work and great opportunities. He had been promoted to lieutenant general, at thirty-nine the youngest in the British Army. Then came the command and the chance of leading an army to war. So in truth the thought of how to beat the French had concerned him especially closely of late, if not that particular evening up until this point.

  ‘I have not fought the French for fourteen years. They were good then, and from all I have heard have since grown better.’ Sir Arthur shook his head when Croker gestured towards the decanter. The young lawyer helped himself to another glass and then settled back into his chair.

  ‘From what I understand, we made a lot of mistakes in Flanders,’ he asserted in his best barrister’s voice.

  ‘That is most certainly true. It would have been difficult to make a greater hash of things. I suspect that the main thing I learnt from that campaign was how not to wage a war.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that is something.’

  ‘Rather an expensive way to learn a lesson.’ As always, waste appalled him, and there was bitterness in his ice. ‘Since then Bonaparte has devised a new system of strategy which has outmanoeuvred and overwhelmed all the armies of Europe.’ Sir Arthur gave another faint smile. ‘’Tis enough to make one thoughtful; still, no matter.’

  ‘I would guess that consideration has produced an answer – a remedy to this
new strategy?’

  Again the smile. ‘Well, let us hope so. In any case my die is cast. The French may overwhelm me, but I don’t think they will outmanoeuvre me. First, because I am not afraid of them, as everybody else seems to be; and secondly because if what I hear of their system of manoeuvre is true, I think it a false one as against steady troops. I suspect all the continental armies were more than half beaten before the battle was begun.’ Suddenly he burst into something that sounded like a cross between a sneeze and a horse neighing. Croker knew his friend well enough to recognise his unique laugh, although as with most people its volume and abruptness still took him by surprise. It stopped just as unexpectedly, but Sir Arthur’s smile was broad as he continued. ‘I at least, will not be frightened beforehand.’ The smile faded and his face was once again a mask of confident purpose. ‘I think I shall beat them.’ He opened his hands in a gesture. ‘But I can’t help thinking about them.’

  Comforts were fewer in the cabin of a small merchantman, beating as close as it could into a south-westerly wind in the Bay of Biscay. They had not seen the sun for days, and late spring or not, the atmosphere below decks was cold and damp. The ship’s captain had left them, and the three men sat around his table. One was slumped over, arms resting on the wooden surface and cradling his head as he snored loudly. The younger of the other two men watched with mild interest as a spilled pool of wine flowed against the sleeping man’s sleeve every time the deck rolled beneath them, and then trickled away back to the raised rim of the wooden table whenever it pitched back the other way. He was half surprised the sleeper did not wake up, lick the puddle dry and then resume his slumbers, for the man had spent almost all the voyage either drinking or asleep. Would he be any more active once they arrived and he took charge of one of his Imperial Majesty Tsar Alexander’s warships? Would he have drunk himself to death before they arrived?

  The racking cough interrupted his thoughts, but Major the Count Denilov barely registered it, for the sound had been so very frequent in the last weeks. Surprise had long since gone, and even the disgust had faded. The third man in the cabin had skin that hung loose around his neck, the sign of severe loss of weight. His complexion had already been as grey as death and his eyes bloodshot before they got on board. He coughed again, his whole body in spasm, and when he brought his grubby handkerchief away from his mouth there was blood on the cloth.

  The general knew he was dying, and that was why it was so important for him to talk to his younger colleague. Their mission mattered more than the agony of sitting upright, more than the squalor of the voyage in this tired old wine ship, which leaked water through every joint and yet still seemed covered in filth. Only Denilov looked clean, his dark green uniform somehow neat and pressed, his black leather belt shining. The count always looked immaculate, just as he always looked bored, observing other people as if they were insects. The general watched as Denilov poured some of his own wine to add to the pool running up and down the table.

  ‘The English . . .’ Another vicious spasm of coughing interrupted the general. Again he pressed his handkerchief to his lips. He no longer even bothered to look at the contents. There was no surgeon on board, and anyway

  the Tsar himself trusted so fully. The price of talent, he thought to himself, then his smile dissolved into another cough that sent pain through all his body. He recovered, swore wearily and continued. ‘In the end it all comes down to the English. We need to know what they will do. Bonaparte plans to strangle their commerce. He will close off all the ports of Europe to English ships and starve them of trade.’

  ‘It seems a very practical response,’ conceded Denilov, but his voice suggested no more than casual interest. ‘He cannot hope to beat the English navy at sea. He does not have either the ships or the men and it will take years to build them. If he does not control the sea then he cannot send his legions to march into London. So why not hit les rosbifs in the pockets.’ Both Russian officers conversed comfortably in flawless French, for they were educated men and this was still the language of culture. Still, the general found the use of such slang more than a little jarring. He wondered whether his subordinate had intended this.

  The general nodded, began to cough again, but then for once the spasm quickly subsided into nothing. For a short moment, he knew relief from the pain. ‘It is reasonable, and now he has overrun both Portugal and Spain and so is able to extend his ban on English trade. All Europe is now closed to them. Again, the question is what will they do about it.’

  ‘We are France’s ally.’

  The general nodded again. He had been with the Tsar the previous year when he had met the French Emperor on a specially prepared barge floating on the River Niemen. The only two doors to the wide cabin faced towards the opposite banks and the idea had been for both to enter at the same time. Napoleon had of course hurried across, and was there waiting for the Tsar. Napoleon always got there first.

  The general had been close behind his ruler, and remembered that his first words had been ‘I hate the English as much as you do’ and how gladly Bonaparte had lapped that up. Maybe it was true. Russia, encouraged by English money and enthusiasm, had fought Napoleon in Europe and had paid the price in three years of defeat and tens of thousands of dead.

  ‘The Tsar and Bonaparte are friends,’ noted Denilov, although as ever his voice was detached. There was no judgement in the tone, no indication of whether he thought this good or bad, or indeed whether it touched him at all. Still, the general had almost forgotten that the count had been present in the series of banquets following the negotiations. No doubt he remembered the warmth between the young and handsome Tsar and the short, stocky French Emperor. Prussia’s king had been publicly humiliated, but Napoleon carefully cultivated the Russian monarch.

  More coughing, and this time the attack was worse and the general struggled to control it, his whole body sheathed in agony. Finally he recovered enough to speak.

  ‘The Tsar must act like any good ruler and cope with defeat.’ The general did not add that his monarch was also still young, and not always wise. ‘At present we cannot fight the French. Our armies need time to recover. Our generals need to learn how to win. God willing, one day we will find another Suvarov.’

  ‘Better to stay their friend if Napoleon’s plan works.’ As far as the general could see Denilov felt little shame in Russia’s defeat, showed no regret for all those dead men. The count had made a name for himself in the campaigns, showing courage at times when there were influentil witnesses. Had it not been for his reckless gambling, shameless affairs with married women, and the frequency and ruthless effectiveness with which he duelled, his career would have prospered far more. Denilov did not appear to care.

  ‘If it works?’ the general continued. ‘The French face risings in Portugal and throughout Spain. Napoleon’s soldiers are good, but they are stretched thinly from Poland to the Atlantic. If the English send an army to aid the rebels . . .’ He broke off for another spasm of coughing.

  ‘The English spend money, not their own blood,’ said Denilov dismissively.

  The general breathed deeply, and waved one arm in the air. For some reason it seemed to help. ‘Even lavish use of money would aid the rebels greatly. Yet this time they may also fight. They have done it before, and perhaps now have reached a point where they have nothing left to lose. If Bonaparte’s plan works, then England will be lost, sooner or later. Do we want a world run by Bonaparte?’

  Denilov shrugged. ‘Paris is still a long way from St Petersburg.’

  ‘For the moment. What of the future? Is Bonaparte always to dictate to us, and Russia must come to heel like a whipped cur?’

  Another shrug, but there was just the hint of more interest in the count’s gaze. The idea of Britain making a last desperate gamble appealed to him for it mirrored his own life. He also knew from experience that the cards did not always favour either the desperate or the bold. It was a truth which made the wager all the more intoxicating. For him
self there were still more hands to play. The British were finished. Whether they fought or not, they would lose in the end and Napoleon’s empire would dominate the world. That was the reality, and a sensible man would accept it, and make himself as comfortable as possible in the new order.

  The general was pleased to see the spark of real attention, accepting it as a sign that whatever Denilov’s failings of character, he remained a true Russian and loved his country. It calmed him, and with little more than a clearing of the throat, the automatic raising of his handkerchief to brush his lips, and a slight wave of his hand, he was ready to continue.

  ‘That is our task. To go to Lisbon, and judge what will happen next. Siniavin will help us, but he is not an imaginative man and he must not know our purpose for his opinion will be worth little. All sailors respect the English fleet too much to understand the weakness of their army.’ When Russia had made peace with France the previous year, the Tsar and his ministers had made many concessions to the French. One was giving up all of their Mediterranean bases. That left the squadron of warships stationed there with a long journey home, unsure whether or not the Royal Navy would treat them as enemies. Admiral Siniavin was their commander, and he was a cautious man who had put in to the broad mouth of the Tagus and anchored off Lisbon on the pretext of repairing storm damage. He maintained friendly relations with the French there, but kept his distance even though he was an ally. He also ensured his crews were prepared for anything. Denmark had shown how little the British regarded neutrality when there were warships at stake. The three men would join this fleet – their sleeping companion was to replace the captain of one of the ships who had died in an accident.

  ‘Siniavin is instructed to introduce us to the French leaders, and as many of the Portuguese as possible. The English we will simply have to watch.’