The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon (читаем книги онлайн бесплатно txt) 📗
Napoleon folded his hands together and leaned forward to rest his chin on them. He stared back into Arthur’s eyes with the penetrating stare that had so intimidated his generals and ministers. The Englishman did not flinch.
‘I cannot accept such terms. I am Napoleon. What will history say of me if I flinched at the end?’
‘If you fight on, beyond the point of reason, and have more men die for nothing, then history will surely brand you a tyrant. . . and a monster.’
‘I wonder?’ Napoleon smiled.
Arthur felt a surge of anger at the other man’s preoccupation with his place in history. How many more men would be buried in the foundations of such posterity? He stood up and looked down on Napoleon. ‘There is nothing more to say. This meeting did not take place, as far as I am concerned. I had hoped to save the lives of my men, your men, even you. But I can see that you will not let that happen.’
Napoleon shook his head.‘I have not given you permission to leave.’
‘Permission? I do not need your permission.’
‘I can order my men to prevent your leaving.’
‘I was given your word that I would be allowed to pass freely.’
‘Is that what Colonel Chaumert said?’ Napoleon smiled thinly.
Arthur felt bitterly sad that it had come to this. There was no end to Bonaparte’s lack of integrity. He looked squarely at the other man. ‘If you don’t care for your own reputation, that is one thing, but would you dishonour Colonel Chaumert too? And to what end? Even if you refuse to let me go, your defeat is assured. And you would add the weight of eternal shame to that of eternal tyranny. That will be what you are remembered for.’
Napoleon breathed in deeply and was silent for a moment.‘Go then. We shall not meet again.’
‘I have no desire to,’ Arthur replied. He made his way to the door, opened it and stepped out into the moonlight. Colonel Chaumert looked at him expectantly.
‘My horse, if you please.’
Chaumert handed Arthur the reins and offered his hands to help Arthur up into the saddle. Arthur ignored him and climbed into the saddle unaided. Chaumert mounted his own horse and the two men rode out of the farm, back up the road towards Brussels. As they reached the place where Arthur’s escort was waiting, he turned to Chaumert.
‘Before I go, tell me something.’
Chaumert shrugged. ‘What is it?’
‘You are a good man, I take it.’
‘I have tried to be.’
‘Then what is it that makes a good man prepared to follow a tyrant to the very end?’
Chaumert thought for a moment. ‘Even tyrants have the seeds of true greatness in them. A good man sees that, and he serves in the hope that one day the greatness will out.’
‘And if it doesn’t? What do you do then?’
‘Then I am wrong, in which case I deserve oblivion, for all those who suffered at the hands of the tyrant I served so faithfully.’
‘Then why stay at his side?’
‘Because there is still time for some measure of redemption.’
Arthur held out his hand. ‘I fear you will be disappointed.’
‘And I fear you may be right.’ Chaumert smiled as he clasped Arthur’s hand. ‘Sir, in another life, I would rather have found a man like you to serve. But then what man ever truly has the chance to choose his own fate?’
Arthur stared at him and then nodded sadly. ‘Goodbye, Colonel.’
‘Farewell, sir. I hope you, of all men, live to enjoy the fruits of peace.’
‘The fruits of peace?’ Arthur paused as he considered the future. Home. Kitty and his unknown sons. A return to the flummery of social life, and the poison of politics. The war had made him, furnished him with the closest friends he had ever known. It had shown him the heights of human endeavour, as well as the depths of depravity. He smiled. ‘For men like us the fruit of peace is the absence of war. Little else. It’s over. All over.’
Then he turned his horse in the direction of Waterloo and galloped away as the first rays of a new dawn seeped across the worn, torn continent.
Chapter 65
Plymouth, 30 July 1815
As Napoleon emerged from the companionway the lieutenant of the watch gave a quick nod to the midshipman standing by the blackboard easel. The youngster snatched up a rag and hurriedly erased Eating Lunch, and then chalked up, in big letters, On deck, for the benefit of the thousands of spectators aboard the swarm of small boats bobbing on the sea surrounding HMS Bellerophon. As those aboard the boats turned to read the new notice some stood and scanned the deck of the warship for the first sign of the great man. For the last week the harbour had been packed with local people and those who had travelled some distance just for the chance to catch sight of the Frenchman who had threatened to humble Britain for the last fifteen years.
Napoleon straightened up as he emerged on deck and nodded a greeting to the lieutenant. Behind him came his small coterie of staff officers, and the party climbed the short flight of stairs on to the quarterdeck of the seventy-four-gun warship. At first Captain Maitland had tried to insist that the French officers stick to the port side of the quarterdeck, leaving the starboard side free for the ship’s captain and his officers. However, Napoleon had ignored the instruction and wandered where he willed, asking endless questions about the operation of the warship of those officers who spoke French. Maitland was not on board today. He had gone ashore and taken a room in an inn favoured by naval officers to await fresh instructions concerning his prisoner. Ever since Napoleon had arrived on the deck of the ship, surrendering himself to the protection of his most inveterate enemy, the British had not known what to do with him. Maitland had reported Napoleon’s presence to the senior admiral on station, who had ordered him back to England to refer the matter up the chain of command. Now Napoleon’s fate was being decided by the government in London.
Crossing to the side of the warship he gazed down over the thousands of spectators who had come to see him. He smiled and raised his hat in greeting and there was a ragged chorus of cheers from his audience.
De Las Cases, Napoleon’s secretary, shook his head. ‘The English make strange enemies, sire. You seem to be as popular with them as their own monarch.’
‘Well, I must ensure their continued good will,’ Napoleon replied quietly as he raised his hat again and waved it at a party of young women aboard a small yacht that had somehow slipped through the screen of guard boats which were rowing swiftly to cut the yacht off. ‘I have no desire to be handed into the custody of my enemies on the continent.’
Few doubted that he would be put to death if he were returned to France, which left his English captors with a dilemma. Of all his enemies, Napoleon had calculated that England would treat him the most leniently. That was why he had given himself up to Captain Maitland. In truth, he had little choice in the matter.
After the defeat at Waterloo, he had raced back to Paris to take charge of the situation and prepare to gather all available forces to stem the advance of Wellington and Blьcher. Such was his exhaustion that he allowed himself several hours’ rest once he reached the Tuileries. By the time he awoke his enemies had made their move. Led by Fouchй, the Chamber of Peers and the Chamber of Deputies had passed motions declaring that they could not be dissolved without their agreement, and called on the National Guard to defend them. Fouchй had then called on Napoleon to abdicate for a second time. Weighed down by fatigue and despair Napoleon had given way. As a last favour to his former master Fouchй had placed a French frigate of the Rochefort squadron at his disposal and requested that he leave France once and for all. Napoleon had delayed in Paris for a few days, offering to serve his country as a mere general to help stem the allied invasion. His offer was curtly rebuffed. As the first exchange of cannon fire echoed across the city Napoleon and a small band of close followeres had fled to Rochefort, only to discover that it was closely blockaded by the Royal Navy. Napoleon had hoped to escape to the United States, and waited in the port for the chance to slip out to sea under cover of a moonless night.
