The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon (читаем книги онлайн бесплатно txt) 📗
‘What the devil?’ Arthur growled, lowering the razor. ‘You surprise me like that, and it won’t be an enemy bullet that takes me. I’ll die by my own bloody hand!’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Somerset thrust Ponsonby forward. ‘But you must hear the news.’
‘Ponsonby?’ Arthur frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was sent to find you directly General Hope received the officers sent from Paris.’
‘Officers? What officers?’
‘Colonel Cooke, and Colonel St-Simon of the French army, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘Sir, I have extraordinary news for you.’
There was no mistaking what the man would say. Arthur held up his hand to silence the colonel. ‘It’s peace. I knew that we would have it.’
‘Aye, sir, we’ve all expected it. But there’s more. Napoleon has abdicated.’
‘Abdicated? It’s time indeed.’ Arthur replied without thinking. Then the full truth of it struck him. Napoleon was finished. With no throne, he would no longer be able to threaten the peace of Europe. At once his severe expression was split by a wide grin. Tossing his razor down into the basin, he clasped Ponsonby’s hands. ‘Abdicated! You don’t say so?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘By God . . . by God, this is wonderful!’ He turned to Somerset and could not help laughing. His whole mind and body was seized by the most pure and irresistible delight. ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ Releasing Ponsonby’s hands, he snapped his fingers and hopped lightly from side to side. ‘That I should live to see this!’
‘Just what I was thinking,’ Somerset chuckled as he stared at his superior’s unprecedented display of jubilation.
The night’s banquet was a raucous affair as British, Spanish and Portuguese officers celebrated with their French counterparts from the town’s garrison. Just as the main course was cleared away the two colonels sent from Paris arrived, bearing the official despatch. Arthur read it through, then stood to announce to the hushed audience that Bonaparte was to leave France for ever before the end of the month. Louis, the brother of the previous king, was to be returned to the throne. As the cheers echoed round the banqueting hall he sent for champagne to toast King Louis. As the glasses were recharged General Alava, who had recently re-joined the army from Madrid, quickly stood up and raised his glass towards Arthur.
‘To Field Marshal the Marquess of Wellington, el liberador de Espaсa!’
A great roar of approval went up from the assembled officers and they downed their champagne. Then one of the Portuguese commanders made a new toast. ‘El Douro - saviour of Portugal!’ There was another cheer before the mayor of Toulouse staggered up and toasted Arthur in broken English. ‘To Monsieur Wellington. He save France!’
This time the cheering did not end. The officers thumped their fists down on the table in a deafening rhythm that set the remaining cutlery and glasses trembling. Arthur slowly rose at their acclamation. He bowed his head to each side, and tried to make his thanks, but it was impossible. At that moment, as he looked round at his men, it was not joy, nor triumph, that filled his heart. It was gratitude, and an almost paternal affection for those who had become closer than family to him.
Slowly the cheering subsided and then there was a respectful but expectant silence as they waited for him to speak. Arthur smiled nervously, then lowered his head and shook it gently, afraid his voice would betray the emotions that gripped him. Somerset saw his difficulty and hurriedly rose to his feet, leaning towards his commander.
‘Shall we have coffee, sir?’
‘What’s that?’ Arthur mumbled.
‘There’s been a deal of champagne drunk tonight. Some of the officers will need sobering up before they go back on duty.’
‘Yes. Coffee.’ Arthur nodded. He raised his head, and cleared his throat. ‘I, ah, thank you all, most humbly. And much as I hate to break up the night’s celebrations, it is time for coffee.’
Some groaned at his words, but most were just bemused, and happily cheered and clapped the suggestion.
As he sat down, Arthur turned to Colonel Cooke and his French companion. ‘Do you have a copy of the despatch for Marshal Soult?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then you must find him at once. Ride on, to the south-east. He cannot have more than a day’s start on you.’
‘Tonight, sir?’ Cooke replied, surprised.
‘Yes, tonight. Hill’s men are pursuing him, and I’ll not have one more life lost through any avoidable delay in getting the news through to Soult. Go now.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cooke said, and gestured to Colonel St-Simon to follow him as he strode from the banqueting hall.
Most of the French soldiers in the south were eager to believe the news, but Soult refused to accept that his master had fallen until he received confirmation from the hand of Berthier. Having allowed his men to celebrate the victory, Arthur soon began to issue the orders for their withdrawal to Bordeaux, from where they would be shipped home to Britain in due course. While the men were excited by the prospect of returning home, their officers were less sanguine once the initial delight over the great victory had faded. For many of them peace would mean half-pay and no chance of further promotion.
While the army began to adjust to the prospect of peace after two decades of war, Arthur travelled to Paris to take his place amongst the victors as they led the parade through the streets towards the Tuileries. There, the new King of France would review the soldiers and offer his gratitude for the sacrifices made by the allies in ridding Europe of the scourge of the Corsican Tyrant.
On 3 May, the day before the parade, Somerset presented Arthur with a letter from the Prince Regent as he sat eating his breakfast in his rooms in the suite provided for him and his staff in the Tuileries. Arthur lowered his knife and fork and finished chewing a morsel of lamb chop as he broke the seal and read through the contents. At length he lowered the letter on to the table and picked up his knife and fork to continue his breakfast. Somerset let out a low sigh of frustration.
‘Well, sir?’
Arthur cut off another chunk of lamb and glanced up. ‘I have been offered the embassy here in Paris. Oh, and it is confirmed that I am officially gazetted as the Duke of Wellington.’
Somerset beamed. ‘And not before time. May I be the first to offer my congratulations, your grace?’
‘I thank you, Somerset. It is, as you say, overdue, in as much as it honours all those who have served under me these last years.’
It might have sounded like a platitude from another man, but Somerset knew his commander well enough to know that the sentiment was heartfelt. For his part, Arthur felt a pang of resentment that this recognition of the army’s achievement should have been delayed by the enemies of his family in Parliament. The wretchedness of petty political intrigue had constantly threatened to undermine him and his men throughout their campaigns in the Peninsula. Well, it was better that reward came late than not at all.
Somerset looked out of the window, across the public square outside the palace, and saw that the crowds had already begun to mass along the route of the procession.‘You’ll have quite an audience today, your grace. All come to see the general who trounced Bonaparte’s marshals.’ Somerset paused. ‘It is a shame that you never had the chance to face him in battle.’
Arthur shook his head. ‘No, I am glad that I never did. I would at any time rather have heard that a reinforcement of forty thousand men had joined the French army, than that he had arrived to take command.’
‘Be that as it may, I have every confidence that you would have beaten him, your grace. You are the better general.’
‘Well, we shall never put it to the test. In any case, I’ll not be appearing before Paris as a soldier. The war is at an end, and as I am to be ambassador, then I shall dress as a diplomat. A plain coat, white stock and breeches and round hat will give the right impression, I think. Now then, if I might finish my breakfast in peace?’
