Chapter 64
On the road to Charleroi, 4 a.m., 19 June 1815
‘You must understand that this meeting must remain a secret,’ Chaumert said as they passed by the company of guardsmen blocking the road.
‘If the meeting serves no purpose I have no intention of ever admitting to it,’ Arthur replied coldly.
‘Good,’ the French officer nodded as the small column of riders passed through the moonlit countryside.
Despite the defeat a number of units of the Army of the North had remained intact and had been avoided by the Prussian pursuit, who had preferred easier pickings. Arthur and his small escort of Life Guards had ridden with Chaumert as far as Genappe, and then Arthur had continued with the colonel and a squadron of lancers to the final destination, following side roads to avoid the French soldiers fleeing towards the frontier. Now they turned off the road on to a narrow lane, at the end of which was a small farm. A carriage sat in the farmyard. By the light of the moon, Arthur could see a perimeter of sentries surrounding the building. Chaumert reined in and slipped down from his saddle. He tethered his horse to a post outside the door and looked up at Arthur.
‘He’s waiting inside.’
Arthur hesitated. He wondered if he should have heeded Somerset’s advice not to leave his headquarters with the French colonel. But there was little to fear, and something might yet be salvaged for the good of all by his agreeing to come. He dismounted and handed the reins to Chaumert. Then he lifted the latch and entered the farmhouse. A small fire glowed in the hearth of the main room and by its flickering light Arthur could see the dim figure sitting on a stool to one side. He turned at the sound of Arthur’s footsteps.
‘Good evening, my dear Duke,’ Napoleon said without a smile. ‘I should say that it is a very good evening for you. I congratulate you on your victory.’
Arthur stared at him from the shadows by the door, and replied, in French, ‘There has been too great a loss of life for me to accept any congratulations.’
‘For the moment, yes. But in time the dead are forgotten and such a victory is remembered for ever.’ Napoleon waited for a response, and when it did not come he gestured towards a plain wooden chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. ‘Come and sit.’
Arthur crossed the room and eased himself down. Napoleon’s features were dimly visible by the light of the fire: heavy jowls and sunken eyes beneath a broad brow and short, dark hair.
‘Your officer said that you wanted to discuss surrender terms.’
‘That is what I said, but I have other reasons.’ Napoleon stared at Arthur curiously for an instant.
‘I am not interested in them,’ Arthur replied. ‘I am here to discuss surrender, or I leave at once.’
‘Very well, we will discuss surrender. But first, let me say how kind the years have been to you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Arthur asked suspiciously.
‘You don’t remember?’ Napoleon’s brow rose a fraction. ‘Ah, but I do. I never forget . . . Angers. The School of Equitation. Twenty-nine years ago. You played the violin.’
Arthur felt his blood turn cold. Though his mind was tired he recalled the happiest year of his youth, spent away from his mother, and brothers whose academic ability far outshone his own. A year when he had been released from the burden of his family to enjoy the company of his peers, under the kind patronage of the school’s aristocratic director. The Comte de Pignarole had perished in the Revolution. Arthur recalled a day when the school had entertained some young officers from a French artillery regiment. As the memory crept back he looked searchingly at Napoleon.
‘I see that you do remember.’A smile flickered on the weary features. ‘The world has changed so much since then, eh? And we have changed with it, and become great men.’
‘As I recall, we did not have much in common that day,’ said Arthur. ‘There was a disagreement.’
‘That’s right. You were all for the rights of the aristocrat, and I argued for the rights of the common man.’
‘And now you are a tyrant, and I am the one fighting to restore liberty.’
‘Liberty?’ Napoleon sneered.‘You want to restore the Bourbons, and they want to restore the corruption and privilege that drove the people to revolution in the first place. You mark my words, the Bourbons will not last. None of the ruling houses of Europe will survive. The Revolution opened people’s eyes. It will take some nations longer than others, but revolution will come to them all.’
‘I am not here to listen to this,’ Arthur interrupted. ‘We will talk of surrender, or I leave now. What are your terms?’
Napoleon stared coldly at him. ‘I am not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner.’
Arthur shrugged.
‘Whatever the outcome of today’s battle, I am still Emperor of France.’
‘Your title means nothing now. Your army is crushed, and the people of France will not forgive you for leading them to defeat again.’
‘I have other armies. Grouchy is still in the field. I can retreat on Paris, gather my soldiers to me and make a stand.’
‘There is no hope of resisting the coalition,’ Arthur said wearily. ‘It is over.’
‘There is always hope,’ Napoleon replied vehemently. ‘When I was exiled to Elba you all thought I was finished, admit it! And yet I came back. It took me less than a month to have France back in my grip. What is to stop me doing it again?’
‘There will be no Elba this time. You have been declared an outlaw. If the Prussians take you prisoner then you will be shot. I doubt if the Austrians or the Russians will be inclined to be any more merciful.’
‘And what of England? Would my oldest enemy do the same?’
‘I cannot speak for my government, but I would prefer not to see another ruler torn from his throne and executed like a common criminal. It disturbs the natural order of things. So, perhaps I should state my terms first.’ Arthur lowered his head for a moment to order his thoughts. ‘Tell your soldiers to surrender. Every man in your service. Then declare your unconditional abdication. In exchange, I will take you into custody. I offer you no guarantees for your protection. I will abide by whatever decision my government makes concerning your fate.’ Arthur looked up. ‘Those are my terms.’
Napoleon was silent for a moment before he responded. ‘Those terms would not dignify a dog. What can I do but refuse and fight on?’
‘With what? You have nothing to fight with, except a dwindling number of followers who only want a glorious end. I have seen enough of war to know that it has little glory. It is an ugly, cruel thing, and it would be better to put it behind us as soon as we can.’
‘Yet you have known no other life but that of a soldier at war,’ Napoleon said shrewdly. ‘Do you really think you can be comfortable with peace?’
‘I do not know,’ Arthur replied. ‘But I do know that I no longer want to live in a state of war. I feel that with all my heart. I ask you . . . I beg you, put an end to this conflict now. Spare the lives of your people. Spare the lives of your enemies. Take this chance to be remembered for having done the right thing when you could still choose to. Agree to that and I will do all that is in my power to find you a respectable place of exile in which to end your days. It will not be Elba. Make no mistake, it will be a prison, and you will be closely guarded. If you refuse then you must take your chances with England’s allies.’ Arthur looked at the Emperor earnestly, hoping that he would see the futility of continued resistance.
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.