'Dispatch from representatives Saliceti and Freron, sir.'
Napoleon broke the seal, scanned the message, then reread it more slowly before he finally looked up.
'It seems I am to be promoted to brigadier.'
'Congratulations, sir,' Junot grinned. 'It's no more than you deserve.'
Napoleon looked at the letter again.Three months ago he had been a lowly captain, struggling to find a patron. Now, he was to be a brigadier. That was a swift rise for a soldier by any standard, and he wondered just how far such a man might go in this world.
Chapter 82
Flanders, May 1794
Lord Moira's reinforcements had landed in Ostend just in time to abandon the port. The French had broken through the Austrian line and were threatening to cut the reinforcements off from the rest of the British Army, itself already in full retreat towards Antwerp. Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Wesley reined his horse in and sat for a moment watching his regiment march past.The men of the 33rd Foot seemed to be in fairly good spirits, given that they were about to make a forced retreat across the face of the advancing enemy columns. That would change after a hard day's march. Most of the men were seasoned enough, but like other regiments in the rapidly expanding army, there was a leavening of raw recruits – men who were either too old, or little more than boys; men who had poor constitutions or were simple in the head. Arthur felt some pity for them. In the days to come they would suffer the most and be the least likely to survive.
He twisted round in his saddle and looked back down the road to Ostend. A thick column of smoke rose lazily into the air above the depot. Lord Moira had given orders to burn all stores and equipment that could not be carried by his men and wagons. To Arthur, it seemed like a scandalous waste. Much of the equipment was brand new and was going up in smoke even before it had been used. But there was no helping it. How much worse it would be to permit the equipment to fall into French hands.The French offensive had caught the allies by surprise and now they were in complete disarray and falling back before the fanatical armies of the revolution. It was hard to believe that the fortunes of war could be reversed so comprehensively. Only a year ago the Austrian army, after inflicting a number of defeats on the French, could have rolled across the north of France and stormed Paris – the heart of the revolution. But Prince Frederick Saxe-Coburg had been content to inch forward across a wide front, and now the allies were paying the price for his indolence.
'Keep the pace up there!' a sergeant yelled at the men marching at the rear of the column. 'Unless you want a French bayonet up your arse!'
Someone blew a loud raspberry and the men laughed as the sergeant came running up from the rear of the column to look for the culprit. 'Which one of you bastards just signed 'is own death warrant?'
The soldiers fell silent, but could not help grinning.
'Nobody, eh?' the sergeant smiled cruelly. 'Well, I 'as me ways of finding out.When I do, I'll tear the bugger's throat out, so help me.'
Arthur walked his horse on, and the column tramped away from Ostend, marching across the Austrian Netherlands to the safety of Antwerp. Even though they had been sent to protect these people from the armies of France, Arthur had seen that the sympathies of the locals were with the revolutionaries. He could understand it. The continent of Europe was a patchwork of kingdoms, principalities and provinces traded between the great powers like cards. Now France extended to them the prospect of revolution, a chance to decide their own fate. Except that the revolution was a sham. There was no brotherhood of man amongst the leaders of the revolution, just a ragtag collection of petty-minded despots clutching onto the reins of power at any cost. The people of the Vendee, Lyons, Marseilles and Toulon had discovered that all too clearly, and now the survivors of those who dared to question the power of the demagogues in Paris walked through a landscape of torched villages and putrefying corpses.
'Penny for your thoughts, Arthur.'
Arthur looked round and saw Captain Richard Fitzroy and his mount moving up alongside. He touched the brim of his hat and Arthur responded in kind. Fitzroy was one of his company commanders and adjutant and had joined the 33rd just after Arthur had taken command. His brother had lent him the money to buy a lieutenant colonel's commission and Arthur had been preparing the 33rd for war since the autumn of 1793. Despite the difference in rank Captain Fitzroy and Arthur were the same age and firm friends. Good enough for Fitzroy to dispense with the formalities when duty did not demand them.
Arthur gestured back down the road, towards the column of smoke. 'Just regretting the waste.'
'Yes, it seems absurd. Quite absurd,' Fitzroy replied. 'Here we are, having waited months to get into the fight, and the first bloody thing we do is bolt for cover. It's no way to run a war.'
'True.' Arthur nodded.The 33rd had been given orders to join a convoy bound for the West Indies, before being plucked from their ships at the last moment to join the army being assembled by Lord Moira to invade Brittany. After long months of preparation the force had appeared off the French coast to discover that the uprising they had been sent to support had just been crushed. And so, finally, the 33rd had landed in Ostend, keen as mustard to get stuck into the enemy, only to find that their orders were no longer relevant, thanks to the sweeping advances of the French.
Arthur scanned the surrounding countryside and then his eyes fixed on a small group of horsemen watching the column from the top of a dyke some distance to the south. He raised his hand and pointed.
'I think you might get your chance to fight rather sooner than you think. Look there.'
Fitzroy followed the direction indicated. 'The enemy?'
'Who else? Certainly not our men. And hardly likely to be the Austrians. Last I heard they were scurrying back to the Rhine.'
'Scum,' Fitzroy muttered darkly. 'Take all our bloody money and then leave us dangling in front of Frenchie. Scum…'
'Well, yes – quite,' Arthur nodded. 'But we are where we are, Fitzroy. Nothing we can do about it now.'
'No. Suppose not. Still, eh? Bloody Austrians.'
'Yes. Bloody Austrians…'
'No doubt those Frenchies over there are going to be reporting on our every move.'
'You can bet on it.'
'Really?' Fitzroy grinned. 'How much?'
'I distinctly said, you can bet on it. I'm no longer a betting man.'
'So you say. But I bet if I offered you good enough odds-'
'Fitzroy, you are becoming tiresome.' Arthur was not in much of a mood for conversation, particularly over a subject that could only add to his sense of frustration. He glanced back at Fitzroy's company. 'Your fellows are already slowing down. I'd be obliged if you'd hurried them along, Captain.'
The adoption of a formal air caused Fitzroy to raise his eyebrows, but he saluted none the less and wheeled his mount round and trotted off.
Arthur breathed out a sigh of relief that he was alone with his thoughts once again. Such moments had been something of a luxury since he had left Dublin. Immediately his mind was filled with the image of Kitty.The familiar stab of anger was there in his chest as he recalled the humiliation he had been subjected to by her brother when the latter had refused to permit Kitty to marry such an impecunious prospect as Arthur. In the months that followed he had thrown himself into his duties, partly to enhance his understanding of military matters, but mostly to divert his mind from thoughts of her. Shortly before quitting Dublin he had endured one last humiliation and wrote to her, frankly acknowledging his unsuitability but asking her to reconsider his offer of marriage should the Pakenhams judge that his fortunes had significantly improved at some point in the future. He had concluded the letter by saying that he would always love her and would always honour the offer of marriage. Not that there seemed much chance of improving his lot at the present, Arthur grimaced. There had been few opportunities for anyone in the army to win their spurs, and those opportunities that had availed themselves had largely been squandered in defeat and disgrace. There was little sign that this campaign in Flanders was going to be any different.