At last a hush fell on the crowd. The gleaming coach was approaching at a brisk trot, a species of four-in-hand landau with the arms of the Emperor emblazoned on its side.
Inglis squinted. At the reins the driver was wearing a fat turban and flowing silk trousers. That must be Roustam, a Mameluke from Egypt, one of two that went everywhere with the Emperor. And under his seat a capacious box was built into the bodywork, which held Bonaparte’s campaign documents.
The carriage swept around in a half-circle and came to a stop before the group of officers.
Inglis could see them clearly in their finery now, marshals of France all. There was the much admired Soult, boyish and round-faced, confident and erect. Next to him, Ney was ruddy-faced and intense and, hanging back slightly, Lefebvre, a thin, nervous figure, his uniform nearly hidden by decorations. Others, he didn’t recognise.
There was an electric tension in the air. Then the carriage door opened and none other than the Emperor himself was stepping down. Tired, pale and drawn, he stood for a moment in an imperial pose, gravely acknowledging the bows of the marshals, some of whom went to their knees. Then he raised his gaze to the crowd that began an awe-struck chanting, ‘Vive l’Empereur!’
Bonaparte turned and went to the officers, chatting amiably, the slapping of his gloves against his thigh the only sign of impatience. Inglis watched like a hawk: the Emperor spent most time with Soult, exchanged a jest or two with Ney but ignored Lefebvre.
It was difficult to throw off the thrall of the scene, the almost mystical reverence that held them all in a compelling embrace. Inglis pulled himself together, his thoughts racing as the Emperor walked across to chat amiably with individuals in the rigid lines of the Imperial Guard.
It was one thing that Bonaparte had visited Spain, presumably to stiffen spines, but another to know just how far this went. Rumour had it that he was being followed by an army on the march but what did that mean? Reinforcements, or the usual host around an emperor?
Whatever it was, Inglis was at its epicentre and he couldn’t waste time speculating. As soon as he decently could, he returned to his eyrie and continued his discreet observations.
By the time the parade had dispersed he had compiled a list of notables he’d seen. At least half of the top military talent of the empire had been present. The overriding question was, were they accompanied by troops? He knew that corps commanders didn’t leave their men leaderless while they paraded themselves on the other side of the country, so this could be much more than a defiant show.
That night he laid his plans to discover the true situation.
He hobbled down the main street of the town, ignored by the excited, milling crowds. He sought out a tapas parlour and found the proprietor, who regarded him distastefully. He made his play: he was an old soldier down on his luck and all he wanted was a few silver reales to tide him over for which he’d industriously sweep the floors of the olive stones, cheese rind and other litter customarily discarded there by diners. The patron grudgingly handed him a scraggy broom.
Inglis started at the back, eyeing the customers. French, almost to a man. In full flow of bonhomie, and with copious draughts of Spanish wine, they were loud and uninhibited.
They joked and laughed at him, one tripping him as he balanced on his crutch to get into a corner and he fell, near blinded by pain. They taunted him in French but, being an ignorant Spaniard, he couldn’t possibly understand them. He shouted back, ‘Species of a goat!’ in coarse Galician, which brought puzzled looks and ensured his unhindered access to the rest of the diners – and the riches of revelation they provided.
Soon he had established the main elements and it chilled him to the core. The marshals of France were not there by coincidence or for show. There were at this hour no fewer than five armies marching to the Ebro at the legendary speed for which Bonaparte’s veterans were known. Adding together the strength of each division and corps mentioned, he came up with an appalling figure, which at first his stunned mind could not accept.
Against Moore’s twenty thousand the truly horrifying total of a quarter of a million were now massing behind the Ebro, ready for their lunge into the vitals of Spain.
As he mechanically continued sweeping, he heard what lay behind the careless euphoria he’d seen. None other than Emperor Bonaparte himself would lead this gigantic punishing crusade. He would personally take charge and set about the vengeful reoccupation and subjugation of Spain.
In a lightning dash across Europe from a last-minute humbling of the Austrians, he’d reached the Ebro to take up his command. A full imperial headquarters was being prepared; a field-train with all the appurtenances of a campaign in depth was on its way, and each divisional headquarters laboured under his eye to have their artillery, baggage and communications assembled, their men in readiness to take the road at a moment’s notice.
Just as he’d done all across the Continent, the Emperor would bring his ragged and mismatched foes to battle and, with his overwhelming numbers, wipe them from the face of the earth.
Somewhere on the other side of Spain, Moore was marching blindly towards him, his last information that the French were scrambling to get away. Was he, and the only army of size England possessed, headed for annihilation?
Sick at heart Inglis returned to his wretched hiding place, while raucous noise spilled out from the streets all around him. Without delay, he pulled out pen and paper and began to write.
Chapter 65
Aboard HMS Tyger
It was tedious beyond the usual, this pointless cruise about the north. Tyger was hardly going to send ashore at every port and ask politely if anyone needed help, muskets or other – it was up to those on land to ask. In any case, with the French on the run for the frontier it was unlikely they’d need the small cargo of arms they carried now for such an eventuality.
Bray was becoming tetchy, finding fault with the men’s work and given to moods of silence. It was not hard to see why: the war was seemingly in its last stages and the chance of a brilliant action worthy of promotion was on the point of vanishing in those dismal seas. It had seemed a certain thing, first lieutenant in a crack frigate under a famous captain, but in these waters? He could look forward only to half-pay as a lieutenant in the peace, like thousands of others, instead of retiring in the dignity of a sea-captain.
Kydd knew the other officers would be weighing up their own prospects. There would be a merciless decimation of their ranks, their only chance being that Tyger was kept on in commission, not one of those endless lines of deserted hulks lying in ordinary at any British naval port. And then only to serve in some distant sea, with not even the chance of prize money once peace had been declared.
For himself, all depended on Tyger keeping the seas. In a way it was what would please Persephone most – regular, predictable home leave and freedom from the anxieties of war with a slow but certain path to his flag. Little ones to come, growing roots in the lovely countryside of Devon and trips to London for the season, while-
‘Sir? Mr Brice’s respects and we’ve sighted a frigate,’ reported Rowan, duty midshipman-of-the-watch, crisp and assured. What did the future hold for the lad? Midshipmen on the beach received no half-pay. ‘The lookout thinks it’s Menander.’
‘I’ll be up presently,’ Kydd said, coming out of his reverie. At least this would be a break, a distraction from the endless round.
The pattern of Menander’s masts and sails changed their alignment as she altered towards, and, Tyger doing likewise, they were soon up with one another, heaving together slightly on the grey Biscay swell.