With this depressing news, Napoleon returned along the road to Dresden. On the morning of September 12th, before breaking camp to make the last day's march, he sent for Roger and gave him a despatch for St. Cyr who, as before, had been left to defend the Saxon capital, and told Roger to ride on ahead with it.
This was just the kind of opportunity Roger had been waiting for. Once clear of the army, instead of going to Dresden, he could turn off along a road leading west, then make his way north to Davout's headquarters in Hamburg. To have carried out his plan would have been impossible had he had a long distance to cover, through territory made dangerous by partisan bands that roamed the country harassing the French whenever opportunity offered, as he would have had to take an escort. But Dresden was only twelve miles off and, as it was the Emperor's main base, there were constant troop movements taking place in the vicinity, making the area too dangerous for German irregulars to operate in.
Normally he would have taken his orderly but, with so litde time to plan his venture, he could think of no excuse by which he could rid himself of the man later, and it was important that he should disappear without trace. So, while his charger was being saddled up, he said to the man:
'I have been ordered by the Emperor to ride on ahead, but I'll have no call to dismount before reaching Dresden, so I'll not need a horse-holder. You are to remain with the column, and when you reach camp, keep a sharp eye on my baggage.'
A moment later he had mounted and set off. Within a quarter of an hour he was clear of the advance guard and cantering cheerfully along, greatly elated by the thought that at last he was free of Napoleon and, within a few days now, should be finished once and for all with this unfortunate business that had yet again brought him unwillingly back to the Continent.
During the next half-hour he passed several tracks leading into the wood that bordered the road, but he knew that a mile or so further on there was a highway to the west, and it was this he intended to take; for he was well aware that in the country that lay between Dresden and Hamburg, a solitary French officer was liable to be attacked unless he kept to the main roads.
He was within a mile of the highway leading west when the unexpected happened. Suddenly a shot rang out. He felt a blow as though he had been hit by a musket ball on the calf of his right leg. His horse gave a loud neigh, reared and attempted to bolt. With an effort he checked it and brought it to a halt. For a minute the animal stood with its head down and legs splayed, quivering, then it slowly sank to the ground.
Roger had ample time to free himself from his mount as, panting heavily, it rolled on to its side; but, as he put his weight on his right foot, the numbed leg gave under him, and he fell on his knees beside the horse. One glance at his leg confirmed his worst fears. He had been shot through the calf and the bullet had then penetrated the horse's belly.
The nature of his attacker he had already guessed. No band of German irregulars would have risked operating so near Dresden. It must be a solitary farmer or woodsman who lived in the neighbourhood. All over Germany there were now thousands of such men, embittered by years of French tyranny, who would not leave their homes to serve in the armed forces, but took a fanatical delight in taking pot shots at their hated enemies whenever they could do so with a good chance of escaping capture.
On his way up from the Rhine Roger had nearly always remained in close contact with French troops, as he had heard several accounts of attacks made on French couriers, and other soldiers who had become temporarily detached from their units. He knew, too, the sequel that often followed when the German succeeded only in wounding the man at whom he had fired. He waited for a while, until his victim had become weakened by loss of blood, then suddenly emerged from his cover to fire again at close quarters and so finish him off.
Whipping out one of his pistols, Roger crawled behind his fallen horse and anxiously scanned the wood from which the shot had come. He could see no sign of movement, but knew that death lurked there waiting to claim him. Looking down again at his leg, he saw that it was now bleeding badly, and he had no means of stopping the flow of blood. Soon it would have weakened him to a point where he no longer had the power to resist.
As he lay there, his mind seethed with anger, frustration and self-reproach. For many years he had diced with death. There had been unpleasant chances in battles afloat and on land that he had been compelled to take; but nearly all the worst dangers he had run had been calculated risks. He owed his survival very largely to careful preparation of his plans and never taking any chance that could possibly be avoided. But that morning, in his elation and haste, he had neglected the rule of a lifetime. A moment's thought should have told him that only a half-witted French officer would set off unaccompanied to ride through German forests, now that the country had become hostile. He should have taken his orderly and, as the man would not have dared disobey him, kept him for company all the way to Hamburg.
Now he was to pay for his stupid thoughtlessness. Gone now was all hope of saving Charles; while he, after succeeding in so many brilliant exploits, was to die uselessly, murdered in a ditch by a German peasant, who was no better than a human animal.
16
A Hideous Affray
Roger had only just completed his swift survey of the wood opposite when the musket banged again. Instantly he ducked his head. The bullet went nowhere near it, but thudded into the horse's neck. Blood gushed from the wound, the animal made an ugly choking sound, writhed for a few moments, then shuddered and died.
The second, ill-directed shot at least showed that Roger's would-be killer was a poor marksman, which was some comfort. It meant that he would have to come out of the wood and much closer to ensure hitting his victim in a lethal spot—perhaps even close enough for Roger to use his pistol with effect and so turn the tables on him.
But Roger was very far from sanguine about his chances. There was always the possibility that French troops might appear on the scene, but he had passed only one troop of cavalry since leaving the main army, so he had little hope of being rescued by such means before he would have to make a last, desperate attempt to save his life. He could only pray that the attack would come soon, while he still had the strength to meet it.
For the next ten minutes he remained acutely alert, listening with faint hope for the distant sound of horses' hooves approaching along the road and, with fear, for a nearby rustle in the undergrowth, indicating that his enemy was about to attack him; but the silence remained unbroken. Meanwhile he lay at full length alongside the carcase of the horse, occasionally taking a quick peep over its belly, to make certain that he was in no danger of being crept up on and taken by surprise.
By then his leg was beginning to pain him badly. Obviously the muscle of his calf must have been torn right through, and blood was still seeping steadily out of the hole on each side of his riding boot. If only he could have got the boot off, he could have bandaged the wound and stopped the flow. But to get the boot off without help was quite impossible. Even normally he had to use a jack or have his servant pull his boots off. Yet he knew that if he could not somehow stop the bleeding he would become easy game for the man who was waiting to kill him.
It then occurred to him that he might open up the boot by cutting down either side of the leather so, laying his pistol aside, he got out a sharp knife which he always carried, and set about this onerous task. The leather, although as soft as velvet to the touch, proved unexpectedly tough, and every time he put pressure on the knife an agonising pain shot through his calf. He was also hampered by the fact that he dared not raise his head, so had to work in an awkward position, doubled up, to remain behind the cover of the horse. Within a few minutes he was streaming with sweat and, after cutting through only two inches of the leather, gave a loud groan, then relaxed.