Clash of Empires (27 page)

McConnell steps out, now face-to-face with the French emperor. In English he says, “I'm not telling you anything.”

“You don't need to,” Thibault says. Then comes the crash of a gunshot, echoing crazily off the walls.

McConnell staggers, grunts, opens his mouth, but collapses to the ground before he can make another sound.

Jack stares in disbelief at the hole in McConnell's chest, just a dark circle on the white breast of his uniform. McConnell seems unable to form words. His lips move but no coherent sounds emerge.

“What the devil are you doing?” Napoléon shouts. “Are you mad? We were to interrogate this man!”

“In fact, that was never my intention,” Thibault says calmly. “I have already learned from him everything I need to know.”

He draws his second pistol and replaces the first one in the holster. He turns toward Napoléon and again the walls echo with the sound of a shot.

Napoléon stands still, his eyes wide in shock, but the expression is a falsehood. The fact that he is standing is another. He is a man dead on his feet, a bloodied hole in his forehead a clue as to the cause.

For almost a full second he stands, then all the muscles in his body seem to let go at once and he drops into an untidy pile of limbs on the floor.

Blood from his head wound pools and runs, mixing with McConnell's.

Jack stares. Napoléon Bonaparte, the mighty leader, the most powerful man in the world, has been reduced to this. A jumble of bones in a sack of skin, oozing dark red blood.

McConnell's lips are still moving and his eyes follow Thibault as he steps forward and places the still-smoking pistol in McConnell's hand.

“I despise a man who cannot keep his secrets,” Thibault says. He takes a paper cartridge from a pocket and begins to reload the gun.

McConnell's eyes meet Jack's and his lips mouth a single word:
Run!

Jack cannot. He is frozen to the spot, even as Thibault finishes ramming the pistol and the muzzle of the gun turns toward him.

From the corner of his eye he sees McConnell crawl forward on the cell-block floor, his hand curling around Thibault's boot, jerking him off balance as the shot rings out. Even so, it is so close that Jack feels the wind of the musketball as it passes his ear, and the crash of the shot against the stone walls of the chamber is enough to break him out of his rigidity.

“Get out of here, Jack!” Gilbert shouts, and now Jack runs.

 

WATERLOO

The ride from Antwerp has been largely uneventful for Willem and Frost. They have seen many people, but have not been challenged, just two French officers traveling on horseback. They skirted Brussels, keeping close to the Sonian Forest.

There were faster routes that would have taken them through the city, but there were too many people in a city like Brussels. Too many soldiers. Too many spies. Too many eyes.

A man on a horse, leading another, would be an oddity and would attract attention. So Willem lets Frost ride in front, the brim of his shako pulled low to hide his eye patches. Willem guides him with soft calls: “left,” “right,” “slow.” The instincts of Frost's horse help, and so do Frost's other senses. He seems to know most of what is around him without seeing it.

They slept in the forest, preferring the risk of dragonrats and inquisitive microsaurs to the risk of discovery by French patrols.

Past Waterloo they begin to notice an odd smell in the air. A smell of rot and decay. Willem points it out to Frost, surprised that he has not noticed it.

“It has been in the air since Brussels,” Frost says. “It is the smell of the battlefield.”

He does not explain, and Willem is hesitant to ask further. He knows that Frost lost men on the battlefield on that June day.

They are within sight of the farmhouse at Mont-Saint-Jean when Frost stops riding. He lifts himself up in the saddle, listening.

“We have company,” he says.

Willem looks around and can see no one, but he knows to trust Frost's heightened senses. “Where?” he asks.

“Ahead of us, on horseback, behind one of the farm buildings, I don't know which,” Frost says.

Now Willem hears something that could be the snort of a horse. “Prussians?” Willem asks, preparing to turn and run if not.

“I don't know,” Frost says.

It is too late. A group of six soldiers emerge from behind a barn. Two of them loop quickly around behind Willem and Frost to cut off any chance of escape.

They are big men, strong, and the sabers that hang from their belts are small and straight. Their uniforms are gray and forest green and they carry rifles, not muskets. Willem sees all this but little of it registers. All he really sees is the red plumes on their shakos, the insignia of the French emperor.

“Jägers,” Frost murmurs.

Willem knows this word. Jägers, the elite of the Prussian Army. Scouts, skirmishers, and sharpshooters.

“Do you speak English?” Frost asks.

The leader of the troop looks around at the others, then shakes his head.

“French?” Frost asks.

Another shake of the head.

“Do you speak Dutch?” Willem asks, in Dutch, and this time one of the soldiers nods and moves forward.

“Tell them that we must speak to Field Marshal Blücher immediately,” Frost says.

Willem repeats it in Dutch.

The man smiles and speaks in Prussian to the others, who laugh. He turns back. “I will pass on your message to my commander.”

Willem thinks this is unlikely.

“Please tell your commander that I carry an important letter for the field marshal,” Frost says, and Willem translates as he speaks. “Directly from His Grace Lord Liverpool, the prime minister of England.”

Now the soldier raises his eyebrows and there is another discussion, which Willem cannot understand, although many of the words sound similar to Dutch. The soldiers laugh again.

Frost turns to Willem. “I fear they do not take me seriously,” he says. “What I must do now is a big risk, but there is little choice.”

“Do what you must,” Willem says.

Frost moves his horse forward a pace. “I am Lieutenant Hunter Frost of the Royal Horse Artillery, G Troop,” he says. He points back at Willem: “And this is Willem Verheyen, the saur-slayer of Gaillemarde.”

Willem stops, a little uncomfortable, before translating the last sentence.

The Dutch-speaking Prussian stops laughing, a startled look on his face. He turns to the others, speaking quickly in a low voice. The others all turn to stare at Willem.

“Come with us,” the leader says.

Two Jägers lead the way, while the others follow Frost and Willem, ensuring they do not try to escape.

The smell of death intensifies as they approach the town of Braine-l'Alleud. Cresting a rise Willem sees the battlefield in front of him.

The ground is covered with detritus of the battle of a few months earlier. Broken helmets and muskets. Cuirasses with holes in them the size of cannonballs. Willem shudders as he thinks of what has happened to the men who once wore the armor. There are the tattered remains of drums and flags, piles of rags that are the colors of the French and British uniforms, mostly British, all stained dark brown with dried blood. There are no trees on the battlefield. There are only ragged stumps.

A man in a simple farmer's smock pushes a wheelbarrow, in which Willem can see five large cannonballs. A shot-collector. He will sell them back to whichever army will pay the better price.

In the distance a pyre smolders, sending up a long trickle of smoke to the sky. From that direction comes the smell of cooked meat. Man or horse. Probably both.

“They cremate the bodies?” Willem asks.

“With special permission from the bishop of Charleroi,” one of the Jägers says. “To prevent disease.”

A cry of excitement cuts across the silence of the field and Willem turns to see a man and a woman running toward a dog that is tearing at something in a ditch under a hedgerow. The couple chase the dog away with stones. They haul out a dead, decomposing body. It snags on something and they wrench the legs back and forth. The moment the body comes clear of the hedgerow they pounce on it, going through the uniform pockets, pulling rings from the fingers.

A pair of Prussian soldiers on horseback ride past, but barely look at the couple. The man forces open the mouth, then produces a pair of pliers from a back pocket. Willem turns away.

“It is criminal what they do,” Willem says.

“I can't see what you see,” Frost says, “and some days my affliction is a blessing. But think of this. Someone has to clean up the battlefield. Who else would do it but the locals?”

“But the looting of the dead soldiers,” Willem protests.

“It is a small reward for an onerous task,” Frost says.

On the other side of the road they pass a man with a hammer and a set of cutters, removing horseshoes from a dead mare.

Near the entrance to the village is a stream. A channel has been dug parallel to it. It seems to be full of congealed fat. Willem follows the channel backward and sees a long row of mounds of ash. This is where the fat has run from, he realizes.

His stomach churns.

 

LOYALTY

Marshal Ney is the first commander Thibault goes to see, backed by Baston and twenty loyal guardsmen.

Ney is seated in the commander's office of the fort. A narrow window gives a view of the harbor, and the sea beyond where the English warships prowl like hungry dogs.

Thibault enters without introduction or pomp, thrusting open the door and marching inside.

“General Thibault,” Ney says. “I am busy, but if you would care to come back when—”

“I have assumed control of the army, and soon will be appointed emperor of France and all her territories,” Thibault says.

His soldiers fan out around the room, their hands resting on their pistols.

“I think Napoléon would take a dim view of that,” Ney says calmly.

“He would if he still drew breath,” Thibault says. “He was shot and killed by a British prisoner not ten minutes ago. I have little time to waste. I need to know if you will pledge your support and loyalty to me.”

“That is something I could take under consideration,” Ney says. “We will certainly need a new leader if what you say is true. But you are a mere general.”

“A general who commands the most powerful weapons in the French Army,” Thibault says. “No one will dare go against me. And no, I will not give you time to think it over. I will have your loyalty now, or I will consider you a traitor.”

“Which means?” Ney asks.

“My girls are hungry,” Thibault says. “As Marshal Suchet has already found out, to his cost.”

Ney pales significantly.

“I have many people to visit and very little time,” Thibault says. “Will you swear your loyalty now?”

He waits, his one good eye never leaving the stunned face of the marshal.

After a long moment Ney nods. He stands and kneels before Thibault, offering him his marshal's baton.

“Good,” Thibault says, taking the baton and then handing it back to him. “Major Baston will remain here to ensure you do not reconsider in my absence.”

With that he whirls and hurries out of the room.

There are many people to see today.

The politicians in Paris will be horrified and will oppose him; he knows that. But once he has control of the Grande Armée, they will have no choice.

 

MARENGO

The escape from the prison seems like a distant dream. Such was the confusion. The shouts, the people running, the screams from the cell block. Jack found himself caught up in a storm, just one soldier among many, whirling in a maelstrom of noise and horror. Everywhere he heard the cry,
“L'empereur est mort!”

He did not have to speak French to understand what that meant.

He wasted no time. He left the prison through the rear door, and as soon as he was sure nobody was watching he crossed the street to the stables and hid in the back of the horse stall with the emperor's gray stallion.

This was not a calculated move. All he knew was that Napoléon was dead and Thibault would do anything to hunt him down. He was terrified. Gilbert by now would be dead. McConnell was dead. The only person who knew of Thibault's crime was Jack, and Thibault would come after him with every soldier he could muster.

Now Jack cowers under a pile of hay at the back of the stall, shaking so hard that he fears it will lead to his discovery.

He came here by instinct. Looking for a place to hide. A place he knew. But as the sounds of excitement gradually died away during the night, he started to think that maybe he had accidentally done something clever. Nobody would have expected him to hide so close to the prison. Just across the road. They will have spread out, searching the streets, blocking the gates. After many hours with no sign of him, hopefully they will have decided that he got away.

It is almost dawn before he risks climbing out from the back of the stall, soothing the stallion by gently stroking his rump.

He quickly saddles the horse. He will need to be quiet, he thinks. He finds some rags and ties them around each of the horse's hooves. He is not sure how he knows to do this, but it comes to him, as if in a dream.

Only when he is sure the street is empty does he mount the stallion and ride quietly out, heading to the north, keeping the lightening sky over his right shoulder. The frantic searches of the previous night have stopped and the searchers have gone to their beds. The city itself is not yet awake and the streets are almost deserted.

Still there are patrols, but he manages to avoid them by listening for horse hooves on the cobblestones. His own horse is almost silent.

Once he is nearly caught when patrols turn into the street ahead of him. But in the dim light and the shadows of the morning he is nearly invisible, and he ducks into a dark alley, waiting anxiously as the horses approach, then pass by without any shout or alarm.