Текст книги "Fire and Sword"
Автор книги: Simon Scarrow
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Текущая страница: 32 (всего у книги 44 страниц)
Chapter 41
Even before the reports had been published in Europe’s newspapers Napoleon had settled the affairs of Charles and Ferdinand. The latter was sent into exile at Talleyrand’s estate at Valençay, to spend his remaining days under close watch. He would live comfortably enough, but in isolation from the rest of society and his countrymen. Charles, meanwhile, had hardened his position and negotiated a much better deal than his son received. A number of estates in France and an annual pension of some seven and a half million francs was the price he demanded for surrendering any claim to his former kingdom.
Napoleon announced to Europe that Murat would remain in charge of the government in Spain until a new ruler was chosen. Again Napoleon approached Louis, who once more refused to abandon his palace in Holland, and so the Emperor turned to his older brother, Joseph.
One day, soon after the conference at Bayonne had ended, Napoleon and his staff, together with his brothers, went out to shoot in the surrounding countryside. Berthier had learned from his experience with the rabbits and made sure that this time there would be no question of the event’s turning into a farce. It was early in May and the first growths of spring were bursting from every tree, while new flowers sprinkled bright colours across the rolling, verdant countryside. Birds sang lustily in the trees, little knowing that the band of laughing men passing beneath them in open carriages would shortly be turning their guns on any feathered prey that came into their field of vision.
The hunting party arrived at the site chosen for the shoot: a small hillock overlooking an expanse of flat, marshy ground.A light buffet had been prepared, and Napoleon chewed on a savoury game pie as he spoke to his brother, who was sitting beside him on a grassy bank.
‘Joseph, you will recall the conversation we had about what might happen should the throne of Spain fall vacant.’
‘I recall it very well,’ Joseph replied flatly.
‘Well, what do you say to my offer now?’
‘It is very generous of you, but I am not sure that I am the right man to rule Spain. Besides, I am in the midst of reforming the government of Naples. It is a task I must complete if we are to win the people over.’
‘That work can be easily continued by another,’ Napoleon said dismissively. ‘And you would have the chance to improve a much more significant country. In time your reforms could make Spain a great power once again.You would be loved by the people and envied for their affection by many of the other rulers in Europe.What say you?’
Joseph was silent for a moment as he considered his reply. ‘I say that it is a generous offer. A tempting offer, but for the present the throne of Spain needs to be occupied by a better man than I. Someone like Murat, perhaps? He has been in Madrid long enough to make useful connections amongst the local people and officials. He has even intimated in letters to me that he would be pleased to take the crown if it was offered to him.’
‘He has said that to you, has he?’ Napoleon mused, instantly realising that Murat meant to use Joseph to support his claim to the throne, because he dared not broach the matter with the Emperor himself.With good reason, Napoleon decided. Murat was a fine soldier and an inspirational commander. He was also headstrong and easily corrupted, and could be breathtakingly tactless. Hardly the right choice of ruler for a country like Spain where the sensitivities of the people had to be handled with great care and a degree of compassion.That required the attributes that Joseph possessed and Murat did not.A lesser crown might be found for Murat one day, since he was a member of the Bonaparte family by marriage. Napoleon dismissed thoughts of his brother-in-law and continued.
‘There is no question of Murat’s being King of Spain. It is my judgement that you are the best man for the job. I am depending on you, Joseph. I need you to do this for me. I need a strong, wise man to take charge of France’s southern flank. Who else can I trust? You have always looked out for me, for as long as I can remember. I have always depended on you.Will you fail me now?’
Joseph picked up a small bread roll and bit a corner off it as he stared out across the flat ground. He was silent for a moment and Napoleon tried not to appear anxious as he waited for his brother to speak. At length Joseph nodded.
‘Very well. I will do as you ask.’
‘I thank you, brother.You will not find me ungrateful.’
‘On one condition.’
‘Which is?’
‘That you will not summarily announce my accession to the throne. You will not impose me upon the Spanish. Rather, the junta in Madrid must offer the crown to me. Freely if possible. With the appearance of freedom if not.’
Napoleon considered this for a moment. He would rather the situation in Spain was resolved as speedily as possible, even if that meant openly choosing their new king for them.All the same, he could see the wisdom in Joseph’s suggestion. If the call for him to become king came from the junta in Madrid it would make Joseph’s candidacy more acceptable to the Spanish people, as well as to wider public opinion across the continent. Of course, it would take a little time to persuade the members of the junta that it was in their interest to make the offer. Murat would have to distribute the required bribes and threats to ensure their compliance. Now that would be a far better use of Murat’s abilities, Napoleon noted to himself with a smile. Still, it was a delay all the same and one that he knew would tax his patience. But what could he do? He wanted Joseph to take on the duty and therefore he would have to bow to his brother’s will.
He looked up and nodded. ‘Very well then, I accept your condition. I will send orders to Murat to prepare the ground.’ He cleared the last morsel of meat from his plate and set it down in the grass. ‘Now let’s begin the day’s entertainment.’
Seeing the Emperor rise to his feet the rest of the hunting party hurriedly put aside what was left of their luncheon and followed suit. The guns were brought forward as the guests were led to their posts along the slope of the hillock, where patches of gorse obscured some of the shooting stands from each other. Napoleon saw that Masséna was to his right, perhaps twenty paces off. To his left was Berthier. Across the flat marsh the distant figures of the beaters were visible on the far side, and once the signal was given they began to move towards the hillock, thrashing at the ground before them and using wooden clackers to scare the birds into flight. In case the targets should be too few, or too evasive, Berthier had taken the precaution of ensuring that a plentiful supply of pheasant and duck was held ready in small cages spread out amid the long reeds and grassy hummocks ranged before the hunting party.
The beaters edged across the marsh, scaring up the game, and as soon as he judged that the birds had come within range Napoleon reached for his gun. One of the servants behind him pressed it into his hand and he drew it up and settled the stock into his shoulder. He took aim into the air above the beaters. Movement flickered to either side of his vision as ducks rose up from the marshes, quacking in panic.With a sharp thud from his right, Masséna took a bird on the wing and there was a little explosion of feathers in mid-air before the duck plummeted to earth.
‘Hah!’ Masséna called out as he handed his weapon to one of his bearers and took a loaded replacement. ‘First strike to me!’
A moment later a bird erupted from the reeds directly ahead of Napoleon and flew straight into his line of sight. He tracked it for a second and then began to lead the target before he squeezed the trigger. Instantly a cloud of smoke obliterated his view and the butt kicked savagely into his shoulder. As the breeze swept the smoke away Napoleon saw that he had winged the duck and it flapped pathetically for a little distance, losing height before it dropped into the marsh.
‘One!’ he shouted to Masséna, and reached for another gun.
As the day wore on more and more birds were frightened into the sky and were shot down by the imperial hunting party. When the beaters had exhausted the supply of birds in the marsh, they began to release those in the cages. Napoleon had become locked into a fierce competition with Masséna as each strove to score the most kills, and late in the afternoon Masséna was two birds ahead. Napoleon’s arms were beginning to ache from holding his weapon as an uncaged pheasant flapped into the air slightly to his right, warbling in panic. Knowing that Masséna would be bound to claim the bird unless he shot first, Napoleon raised his gun and tracked the bird to his right. It flew low and fast and before he realised it Napoleon had turned almost ninety degrees to the side.
‘Careful, sire!’ one of the bearers cried out in alarm.
Napoleon snatched at the trigger and the weapon went off with a loud report. Almost at once there was a cry of pain and rage and when the smoke cleared Napoleon saw that Masséna was staggering back, hands clasped to his face as blood dripped through his fingers. After an instant’s hesitation Napoleon began to run across to him, and behind came Berthier, racing towards the sound of Masséna’s shouting. When the Emperor reached Masséna the marshal was down on his knees, groaning, and his bearers were standing over him. Napoleon brushed them aside. ‘Get some bandages and water!’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘And see if there is a physician in the party.’
The bearer nodded and ran back up the hill as the shooting continued on either side. Berthier came running up, panting.
‘What happened?’
‘An accident,’ Napoleon muttered. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe away the blood on Masséna’s face.
‘Careful, damn you!’ Masséna growled. He pulled the cloth from the Emperor’s hand and mopped at the blood streaming down the left side of his face. Napoleon could see the small puncture wounds where the shot had struck, and blood and fluid seeping from the marshal’s left eye. He heard the sound of footsteps rustling through the grass as the bearer returned with an officer, Dr Larrey, who had served with Napoleon in Egypt and Syria.
Larrey bent over Masséna and examined the wounds. ‘What happened?’
‘What do you think?’ Masséna growled through clenched teeth. ‘Some careless bastard shot me in the face.’
Larrey glanced round at the Emperor.
Napoleon felt a surge of anger at the clear accusation. He turned on Berthier and glared. ‘It was you.’
‘Me? But sire . . .’
‘It was you, Berthier. It must have been.You lost sense of where you were aiming. It was an accident.’
Berthier opened and closed his mouth in numbed surprise. He looked to Larrey, and then at Masséna, and shook his head. ‘I didn’t . . .’
‘Don’t deny it, Berthier.’ Napoleon grasped his arm. ‘As I said, it was an accident. Masséna is wounded, but he will recover. Isn’t that right, doctor?’
Larrey was examining Masséna’s face closely, and did not meet the Emperor’s stare. ‘Yes, the marshal will recover, but he may lose the sight in this eye. I’ll do what I can to save the eye, of course. Can you stand, sir?’
‘Yes,’ Masséna hissed. ‘I was shot in the face, not my fucking legs.’
He struggled to his feet and Larrey gestured up the slope. ‘Follow me, sir. We’ll take your carriage back to Bayonne. I have my kit there and I can treat you.’
‘Let’s go then,’ said Masséna, and then paused to glare at Napoleon. ‘With your permission, sire.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Go.’
With the doctor gently guiding Masséna by the arm, the two made their way towards the crest of the hillock. Berthier coughed. ‘Sire?’
‘Yes.What is it?’
‘Should I call an end to the shooting party?’
Napoleon turned to his chief of staff with a frown. ‘No. There’s nothing anyone else can do for Masséna. Let the guests enjoy themselves. Except you, of course. You’ve done enough harm for one day. Return to the carriages and wait for the rest of us there.’
For a second it seemed as if Berthier would protest, but the warning glint in Napoleon’s eye challenged the chief of staff to defy him. He drew a sharp breath, clamped his mouth shut and bowed his head before turning to stride away. Napoleon watched him for a moment, and then turned back towards his hide and called out for another gun.
A week later, towards the middle of May, as the imperial party was preparing to return to Paris, a despatch arrived from Murat. There had been riots in Madrid and a mob had killed over two hundred French soldiers. Murat had responded by declaring martial law and ordering his troops on to the streets. Over two thousand Spaniards had been killed before order was restored. Napoleon lowered the report and stared at the staff officer who had brought it from Madrid.
‘Major Chabert, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘Were you in Madrid at the time of the uprising that Marshal Murat tells me of ?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘Well, then, explain the situation to me in your own words.’
Chabert swallowed nervously. ‘As you command, sire. I think the trouble began with some of our men.You know what they are like, sire. They have a bit of a drink, and then begin to help themselves.’
‘Which is why I insisted that strict discipline be maintained, and that our men be restricted to the suburbs of Madrid.’
A look of surprise flitted across Major Chabert’s face and Napoleon sighed bitterly. ‘I take it that Murat did notquarter his men in the suburbs.’
‘Well, no, sire. Many were billeted in the centre of the city.’
Napoleon closed his eyes briefly and winced. Once again Murat had failed to obey the express orders of the Emperor, and thousands of Spaniards and some soldiers had died as a result.Worse still, there would be a simmering atmosphere of resentment that would make it all the harder to ensure that the junta would call for Joseph to be the new King. Napoleon’s first instinct was to recall Murat, have him brought in front of his Emperor and berate him severely. But that would only undermine French authority in Spain even further; and besides, whatever his occasional faults, Murat was his brother-in-law and had served with him from the early days. Napoleon knew that he had no choice in the matter. Murat had set the course for relations between the French army and the Spanish people for the immediate future. Any sign of weakness now would endanger whatever influence France still had over its neighbour.With a sigh Napoleon opened his eyes again.
‘You are to return to Murat and tell him that he is to stamp on the slightest sign of rebellion. We will not tolerate disorder. He is also to apply pressure on the junta and impress upon them the importance of offering the crown to Joseph Bonaparte at the earliest possible opportunity. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘Very well. One last thing, Chabert.You are to tell Murat, from me, that in future I will expect him to carry out my orders to the letter and that if he fails me again I will replace him with someone more competent, which should not prove to be much of a challenge.’
Napoleon hoped that a show of ruthlessness now would intimidate the Spanish people enough to prevent any further displays of resistance to the French forces stationed there. But in the days that followed news reached him of popular uprisings spreading across Spain. There were riots in Salamanca, Valladolid and Ciudad Rodrigo. The mayors of Cadiz, Cartagena and Badajoz, who had welcomed French intervention, were all set upon by mobs and butchered. The city of Seville had risen in open revolt against the French occupation and the revolutionary junta there had even had the temerity to ask the British governor of Gibraltar for arms and money to support their rebellion.
In Madrid at least, Murat retained control by judicious use of force. While he tamed the common people he worked on persuading the members of the ruling junta to strengthen their ties with France.Those members who proved to be intractable were offered bribes and threats until they came round, and early in April the junta issued a proclamation, in the presence of Murat and a company of grenadiers, to offer the throne of the kingdom of Spain to Joseph Bonaparte.
Napoleon felt a surge of relief as he read of the proclamation. He immediately sent for his brother, who had returned to Paris from Bayonne with the imperial party, and had not yet set out to return to his kingdom in southern Italy.
As Joseph sat in the Emperor’s study in the Tuileries and read through the official invitation to ascend the Spanish throne, Napoleon paced up and down the length of the room. At length Joseph lowered the document.
‘Well?’ Napoleon crossed the study towards him and tapped the sheet of paper. ‘You see, they want you.’
‘In Madrid at least. I am not so sure that this sentiment is shared by the regional juntas.’
‘Pah!’ Napoleon waved his hand dismissively. ‘Once they learn that the Madrid junta has made this offer, and that you have accepted it, they will quieten down and follow the lead from the capital.’
‘I hope you are right,’ Joseph responded doubtfully.‘I have heard that much of the country is in open rebellion.’
‘Precisely because they lack a king,’ Napoleon explained. ‘Murat has handled his role with all the sensitivity of a common street butcher. Of course the people are resentful. They see only a French army of occupation and a French marshal acting as a dictator. But once they have a king, once civil government is restored and business can resume as before, they will settle down. Then you can offer them reforms to bring their backward institutions into the modern world. They will thank you for it, Joseph, and in a few years’ time they will come to respect and love you. I am sure of it.’
Joseph nodded appreciatively. ‘That would be something to be remembered for. Something I could be proud of, in the fullness of time.’
‘Precisely.’ Napoleon leaned towards him with an intense expression. ‘Well, then.Your condition for accepting the crown has been met. Now you must keep your part of the bargain.’
‘Yes.’ Joseph nodded, then thought for a moment and looked directly at his brother.‘There is much to be done in Spain. May I count on your support? Your full support?’
‘Of course, brother!’ Napoleon smiled and patted him affectionately on the shoulder. ‘No matter how long it takes, no matter how many men it takes, I swear that I will maintain you on the throne of Spain. I swear it.’
Chapter 42
Arthur
Dublin, April 1808
‘Congratulations, my dear,’ said Kitty as she leaned forward and kissed Arthur. ‘It is no more than you deserve, and long overdue.’
He read through the letter from the War Office once more, just to make sure. The Secretary of State for War was pleased to inform Sir Arthur Wellesley that he was promoted to the rank of lieutenant-general in his majesty’s forces with immediate effect. Furthermore, he was requested to attend a small investiture ceremony in London, and afterwards make himself available to the Foreign Secretary in order to offer his opinions with respect to the course of the war with France.
Arthur lowered the letter on to the table and shrugged. ‘It is tempting to wonder if this might not have come a bit earlier had I not been held back by my service in India. Never mind.The promotion has come, and I am better able to serve my King and country as a result. That is the important thing.’
Kitty had returned to her seat and was fussing over the crib where their second child, Charles, was lying, tiny fists clenched as he waved them about furiously. The boy’s birth had been one of Arthur’s few consolations since his return from Denmark at the end of the previous year. Almost as soon as the convoy had put into port he had been summoned back to Dublin to resume his duties as Chief Secretary to the Duke of Richmond. He was back at his desk early in October, dealing with the same old problems that had beset Ireland for decades. The divisions between Catholics and Protestants were as pronounced as ever.There were more absentee landlords every year and the prospect of mass starvation due to the failure of the potato harvest constantly loomed.
Even as Arthur worked conscientiously to improve the lot of the Irish people, his mind was fixed on the political situation on the continent and his desire to serve his country in uniform again. Shortly after his return, news arrived of Bonaparte’s attempt to seize control of the Portuguese navy and every man and woman in Britain had breathed a sigh of relief when they heard of the escape of the Portuguese royal family and their warships, two days before French troops occupied Lisbon.
Kitty cleared her throat and Arthur glanced across the table to see her watching him closely.
‘What is it, my dear?’
‘I was wondering how long you might be spending in London this time.’
‘It is hard to say,’ Arthur replied cautiously. He was conscious that Kitty had still not completely forgiven him for the cavalier way he had joined the expeditionary force setting sail for Denmark. He had given her no warning that he was involved with the planning and preparation for the campaign. ‘But I promise that I shall write to you often and make every effort to return to Dublin as soon as I may.’
‘As long as you promise that, I shall be content, Arthur.’ She was quiet for a moment before she continued. ‘You know that I miss you, and worry for your safety when you are not here.’
‘I realise that, my dear,’ Arthur replied patiently.‘But I am a soldier as well as a civilian official.As a husband and father, it is not always possible to balance the claims of all those duties, and those persons to whom I am obliged to give my attention.’
‘I wish that you would give up soldiering,’ Kitty responded with quiet intensity as she offered her little finger to Charles, who grasped it and squeezed for all he was worth, making his mother smile faintly.‘You have done enough active service for your country already. Surely it is the turn of someone else?’
‘My dear, the long years of campaigning in India are precisely the reason why I am needed in uniform. I have valuable experience of leading men, and indeed entire armies, on campaign, and in battle. My country has profited from what I have learned.Would you deny Britain the benefit of that experience now, when we are almost within the grasp of the Corsican tyrant? Britain needs every soldier that can bear arms.’ He smiled at her. ‘If you must blame anyone for the demands made on me, then let it be Bonaparte.’
‘Wretched man,’ Kitty responded, with feeling. She was quiet a moment, thinking. ‘What drives him to desire power without limit?’
It was an interesting question and Arthur gave it some thought before he attempted to reply. ‘A difficult one to answer.There is a flaw of character in some men, whereby they are never replete with the satisfaction that comes with serving one’s country. Their sense of duty becomes corrupted by ambition to the extent that their only obligation is to themselves and hang the rest of it. I believe that Bonaparte is such a man. But he is also the child of a particular moment in history. Were it not for the revolution in France, I doubt that he would have attained any substantial rank in the French army.’
‘Truly?’ Kitty looked surprised. ‘Surely the man has remarkable talents, otherwise he would never have risen to become Emperor.’
‘Oh, he is remarkable enough,’ Arthur conceded. ‘But if there had been no revolution he would have faced the same restrictions on his advancement as I have in the British army. Indeed, given the obscurity of his social origins, I dare say he would never have been likely to rise above the rank of captain in the army that existed before the revolution. The revolution was the making of Bonaparte, just as it was of many of those who now hold powerful offices in France. It was the revolution that opened the doors of rapid promotion to so many men. It was the revolution that fashioned Bonaparte and fed him the opportunities for advancement that brought him to where he is today, and obliged the rest of us to fight him until the bitter end,’ Arthur added with a mirthless smile.‘I wonder, if our positions had been reversed and I had been born in Corsica, how far I might have risen? Equally, if Bonaparte had been born here in Ireland, to my parents, he would have been fortunate to have attained the posts that I have and be sitting here talking to you, my dear.’
Kitty shuddered. ‘The thought of being married to such a monster makes my blood run cold.’
‘And so it should.’ Arthur was silent a moment before he continued. ‘Though I am not wholly certain whether he is what he is by defect of character, or by transformation afforded him by the revolution. I doubt we shall ever know.What a pity.’
‘As long as he is brought low before too much longer, I don’t care,’ said Kitty. ‘And as long as he is brought low without you or any of my brothers coming to harm I shall be happy. He is an evil man.’
‘Evil?’ Arthur considered the suggestion. ‘I suppose he is . . .Yes, you are right. He is doing evil now. There is no question of it. He has changed the nature of war. There was a time when war had limited aims, when it was the last resort of kings and ministers when all else had failed.The army was the final servant of the nation. Now Bonaparte has made the Grand Army into the master of France and the country exists only to serve its soldiers, and their only purpose is to wage war. And war, to my mind, is the greatest of evils.’ Arthur stared out of the window as images from the past burst, unwanted, into his mind. ‘I have seen enough to know that. And to know the degree to which it corrupts the spirits of men.’
‘Then why are you so keen to return to war?’ asked Kitty plaintively.
‘Keen? I am not keen in the slightest. I mean to do all I can to end this conflict, but there can be no end to it as long as Bonaparte rules France. Once he is defeated, then I can give up war once and for all.’
Kitty stared at him a moment. ‘They are fine sentiments, Arthur, but there are times when I fear that you have become just as addicted to conflict as Bonaparte.’
Arthur pursed his lips briefly and nodded wearily. ‘There are times when I fear that you may be right.’
London was buzzing with the news that the Spanish royal family had been ousted from the throne. It was clear to all that Bonaparte would replace them with a puppet ruler as soon as possible, and extend his grip on Europe from the Straits of Gibraltar to the Baltic Sea. Before his departure from Dublin Arthur had been sent some documents from the Foreign Office outlining possible campaigns that might be undertaken against Spain’s possessions in the Americas. The schemes had all been hatched by a renegade, General Miranda, leader of the rebels in Venezuela who sought independence from Spain. During the journey to London Arthur had analysed the sketchy plans and could see that there was scope for some action in the Americas, but he was wary of backing wholesale revolution throughout the Spanish empire. Revolutions were tricky beasts whose nature and direction could never be anticipated.
As soon as he reached the house in Harley Street Arthur sent a message to George Canning announcing his arrival and preparedness to meet at the first opportunity. So it was that first thing the following day Arthur presented himself at the office of the Foreign Secretary. Canning was a slight man with brilliant eyes and a ready smile.
‘Ah, Wellesley! Come in and sit yourself down.’ Canning beamed from behind his desk. Arthur did as he was bid and settled comfortably into a soft leather chair opposite his host.
Canning leaned forward, hands folded together. ‘First chance I have had to add my congratulations on your performance in Denmark. First of all, a vote of thanks from Parliament for your – what was the phrase? Ah, yes! Your “genius and valour”. And then a formal note from the Danes expressing their gratitude for the honourable manner in which you negotiated their surrender of Copenhagen. Truly you are the coming man.’
‘I thank you.’ Arthur bowed his head modestly. ‘I did no more than my duty.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Canning replied with a quick nod. ‘Just as any officer would do.’
‘Yes.That is what I would hope.’
Canning smiled and eased himself back in his chair. ‘I have been authorised by the Cabinet to offer you a new command. An army is to be sent to liberate Portugal, and it was felt that you would be the most suitable officer to take charge of the campaign. Do you accept?’
‘Indeed, sir.’ Arthur’s eyebrows arched in surprise at the suddenness of the offer. He felt elated, and did his best to hide it.‘Do you intend to extend the operation beyond the frontiers of Portugal?’
‘The government considers that it would be most prudent to begin with Portugal. It is more easily supplied and defended, and should provide an admirable base for wider operations when the time is ripe. Only then you might consider Spain.’
Arthur’s heart quickened at the prospect. This was the war he had dreamed of. The chance to tackle French troops directly on terrain favourable to the British.With the Spanish nation rising up against the French occupiers Bonaparte faced waging a war in the most difficult of conditions. His men, accustomed to feeding off the land, would be the targets of armed bands of peasants.The climate was hot too and Arthur well knew the particular strains of campaigning under the merciless glare of the sun. Nor would it be a theatre of war that the French Emperor could ignore. Having made his brother King, Bonaparte would be compelled to divert endless resources to Spain to support Joseph and prevent the humiliating spectacle of a member of his family being ousted from the throne that the Emperor had placed him upon. The situation was ripe with advantages for Britain and her new Spanish and Portuguese allies.
Arthur glanced at Canning. ‘When do you want me to sail for Portugal?’
