Soldier of the Queen (21 page)

In the end, unable to make any impression on them, she shooed them out, insisting that she needed rest. As Colby stepped on to the pavement, de Polignac was waiting for him and he made no attempt to hide his intention to pick a quarrel.

‘You have no right to be here,’ he said. ‘This is a military area and, as a foreign civilian, I could have you arrested.’

‘The damned place is full of Americans, English and Scandinavians,’ Colby snorted. ‘You’d have to arrest the lot.’

De Polignac’s dark eyes glittered. It was perfectly clear that it was less Colby’s interest in the war than his interest in Germaine that was troubling him. For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words.

‘It’s my belief,’ he finally spat out, ‘that you are here for no other reason than to embarrass my government and my country!’

‘And it’s my belief,’ Colby retorted coldly, ‘that you’re a stupid, posturing ass!’

He was about to stalk away when he felt the slap of de Polignac’s gloves against his cheek and he whirled, red-faced and angry. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he demanded.

‘Perhaps the English don’t know how to behave in a matter of honour,’ de Polignac said coldly. ‘That was a challenge, my friend, a demand that you face me to answer for your insult.’

Colby glared, ice cold in his rage and struggling to control his temper. ‘Duelling’s a sport for boys,’ he snapped. ‘It’s forbidden in my country!’

‘We are not in your country, Monsieur.’

As Colby stared at the pasteboard square the Frenchman had tossed down, Ackroyd appeared, a twisted grin on his long face.

‘You’ll ’ave to fight ’im,’ he said. ‘You can’t get out of it. Not and face people. Still, it’s your choice of weapons, so I’d better go and see ’is second. What do you want?’

‘Tell ’im fists.’

‘’E won’t wear that. I’d better say pistols. You were never much good with a sword.’

Feeling faintly melodramatic and foolish but fortified by a stiff brandy offered by Ackroyd, Colby dressed carefully the following morning in a grey suit buttoned to the throat on Ackroyd’s advice so that none of his white linen showed.

‘It’s misty,’ Ackroyd pointed out. ‘It’ll make you ’ard to see. And when you face ’im, stand sideways. It makes a smaller target.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ Colby growled.

‘Read it in the papers,’ Ackroyd said calmly. ‘That time when Lord Cardigan ’ad ’is set-to on Wimbledon Common. You’ll remember ’e was charged and appeared before the ’Ouse of Lords. There’s nothing to worry about,’ he went on, fussing like a mother hen. ‘It’ll soon be over and ’e won’t bother you after, because the troops ’ere are moving east as reinforcements any moment now.’

There had been a lot of showers during the night and, as Ackroyd had said, the morning was misty, especially in the low-lying areas among the streams and pools round the Ile du Saulcy. The sort of advice Ackroyd had offered appeared not to have been given to de Polignac because, when he appeared with his second and an army surgeon, he was in full uniform, a riot of colour and gold lace. Against the misty lavender background of the bushes and trees of the Ile du Saulcy he stood out like a blaze of light.

His second began to explain what they had to do. ‘I propose twenty paces,’ he said.

‘Why not make it ten?’ Colby snapped, half hoping to frighten them off with a show of aggression. ‘Or even stand face-to-face? Then I’ll have my pistol up his nose and couldn’t miss.’

De Polignac licked his lips and his adam’s apple worked.

‘Twenty paces is the customary distance,’ the second pointed out stiffly.

Colby sniffed. ‘Very well. I expect I can hit him just as easily at that distance.’

The second blinked and glanced at de Polignac who looked ready to throw up and seemed to be regretting his hastiness.

‘’E didn’t think you’d accept,’ Ackroyd whispered. ‘The second told me.’

The feeling of melodrama came again as they stood back to back and began to pace out the distance. This hadn’t been at all what Wolseley had intended, Colby decided, and he could well imagine what that icy-minded cynic would have thought if he’d seen him. Typical of the army he was struggling to change, he would no doubt have decided, and there would have been hasty telegrams telling him to report back to London at once.

As he turned towards de Polignac, he saw that, backed by the dark shadows of the bushes and facing fully front, the Frenchman presented a perfect target. He seemed nervous and, moving his feet to give himself a firm stance, he immediately lifted his pistol and pointed it at Colby. Standing sideways as Ackroyd had advised, Colby kept his own weapon hanging at his side. De Polignac, who seemed uncertain at the way things had turned out, kept the pistol pointing at Colby as if to frighten him, but he held it too long with his arm outstretched and it began to waver. As he pulled the trigger, Colby saw the flash at the muzzle and heard the ball whistle overhead. Watching the slow drifting smoke, he stood silently with the pistol still at his side. Whether de Polignac had deliberately aimed high, he had no idea but suddenly irritated by the thought that the Frenchman had expected him to back away, he decided he might as well do a bit of frightening himself.

For a long time he stared at de Polignac, the pistol still at his side, and he saw the Frenchman’s second fidget nervously and the doctor lift a hand to adjust his hat. De Polignac stared back at him, his face pale.

Lifting the pistol, his arm crooked, Colby held the weapon firmly against his chest. De Polignac swallowed but he remained rigid and unmoving. At least the stupid idiot wasn’t lacking in courage, Colby thought. Perhaps it would be a good idea to put the ball between his eyes to prove it. Instead, he straightened his arm quickly, deliberately lifted the pistol, fired into the air and tossed the weapon on to the grass.

De Polignac had swayed slightly but his feet hadn’t moved. His second spoke to him as if to start him from the trance he was in and he drew a deep breath, turned abruptly and walked to his horse.

‘The stupid little gadget can now tell his friends he’s fought a duel,’ Colby growled. ‘It should be good for a drink or two or a kiss from a girl.’

‘I think not.’ It was the surgeon who was picking up the pistol and pushing it into its case who spoke. ‘He’s moving east with the army immediately. We all are.’

As they returned, it was clear that the anxiety at headquarters was beginning to seep into the city. A battle had been fought, they heard, but so far nothing was known and it didn’t pay to enquire too deeply. The outbreak of spy-mania, of which de Polignac had warned, had resulted in people being crammed into police wagons merely for being blond or tall.

A few scattered detachments were still moving off as Colby headed for the Avenue Serpenoise for breakfast. Germaine’s boudoir was an affair of lace, chaises longues and filmy curtains, and she didn’t seem to consider it at all unusual to receive him in bed. She ordered coffee, eyeing him gravely with her huge eyes. ‘Would you prefer to sleep a little first?’ she asked.

Colby studied her thoughtfully as he sat down by her feet and, swept away by his enthusiasm and the thought that if de Polignac had been more determined and a better shot he could well have been dead, found himself proposing. ‘I think we should go and visit the Maire,’ he said.

Germaine gazed at him, her eyes amused. ‘What are you suggesting?’ she asked.

‘Marriage, for God’s sake!’ he snapped. ‘What did you think?’

She gave a little laugh. ‘But that’s ridiculous!’

‘I’m the right age. So are you.’

She leaned forward to kiss him. ‘I’d much rather simply go to bed with you,’ she said. ‘Suppose, after a week or two, I changed my mind.’ She smiled and kissed him again. ‘After all, with my experience I have no great admiration for men as a group. I think we would do much better to forget marriage and simply make love.’

He gazed at her, disappointed, but since he didn’t feel suicidal, he came to the conclusion that he was merely being businesslike and was far from being in love.

She was lying back on the pillow smiling at him, but as she lifted her arms and placed them round his neck, the door rattled. Colby sat bolt upright. Germaine didn’t turn a hair.

‘It’s locked,’ she whispered. ‘It’s a precaution I always take.’ She lifted her head. ‘Who is it?’

‘Me, Madame! Henriette, your maid. The footman’s just arrived from town to say there’s been another battle near Saarbrücken.’

Germaine beamed at Colby. ‘How nice,’ she said. ‘Everything seems to be going according to plan.’ She raised her voice again. ‘How kind of you to tell me, Henriette! Now run away and amuse yourself. I’m rather preoccupied.’

‘But, Madame–’ the voice outside the door became a wail ‘–he says that this time we’ve lost it. He says there’s also been a battle at Wissembourg, and we’ve been beaten there, too.’

Startled eyes turned to Colby. ‘But Wissembourg’s in France! That means the Prussians have invaded
us
. How
can
that be?’

Colby made for the door. ‘I think I’d better go and find out,’ he said.

Almost at once he bumped into Ackroyd who had come looking for him.

‘The French have been beaten near Saarbrücken,’ Colby said.

‘That they ’ave,’ Ackroyd agreed. ‘Chucked off the Spicherenberg. They say the general felt a bit isolated and thought ’e’d better move back, and the Prussians thought it was part of a general retreat and set about ’im. The whole bloody shebang will be back in Metz before long, because they caught Douay’s division at Wissembourg as well. MacMahon’ll be next on the list.’

They didn’t have far to go before they found themselves surrounded by swarms of French soldiers heading rearwards. With them were wagons, guns, ambulances, and carts full of wounded, their heads nodding to the shake and rumble of wheels. Forbach was full of them, lying in the streets in their hundreds, helped only by nuns, women and foreigners.

‘It’s nothing but a minor setback.’ It was the surgeon who had accompanied de Polignac to the Ile du Saulcy who spoke. He was bending over a wounded sergeant and seemed unperturbed by the defeat. ‘The French have never been afraid to take a step backwards to enable them to take two forward. We’re merely regrouping.’

It didn’t look like regrouping to Colby. There seemed to be nothing but confusion and panic and there was little evidence of organisation. French intelligence had broken down and, dependent for information on the civilian population and latrine rumour, they had marched and counter marched, their orders meticulous about encampments and dress but providing nothing whatsoever in the way of information or maps. Tramping in the blazing sunshine and soaking rain, the regiments had become more and more confused as the columns crossed each other’s routes and their colonels lost confidence in the high command.

There was no point in becoming enmeshed in the debris of a retreating division, but when they returned to Metz the stories had arrived before them and suspense added the beginnings of dread. The black shadow of disaster already brooded over the city and crowds began to form at the station and at the offices of the newspaper, waiting for information to come through on the telegraph. The rumours persisted throughout the day, with additional extras such as that General Douay had been killed by a shell and the Emperor had been mortally wounded. Then they heard that Ackroyd’s suspicion that MacMahon was next was sound. He had been caught at Wörth and driven from the field with disastrous losses.

‘They’ll not get the Italians and the Austrians on their side now,’ Colby said grimly. ‘Not after three defeats.’

As night came, people were still waiting on the corners, worried and anxious, trying to read the latest proclamations by the light of gas-lamps. Army headquarters at the Hotel Europa was surrounded by carriages, standing in a drizzling rain that had started, all full of people desperate for news, while more aimless groups stood in the Place Royale and on the Esplanade, sheltering under dripping café awnings despite the gesticulations of the harassed waiters trying to move them on.

Ackroyd appeared. ‘They’ve come out against Napoleon in Paris,’ he said. ‘Newspaper feller told me. ’E’d ’eard it on the telegraph. They’re talking revolution.’

As they pushed through the city streets, they had to dodge country wagons coming from the frontier full of people, mattresses, chairs and tables. A long straggling column followed in carriages and traps, pushing small wheeled carts, carrying children, or driving a cow or a few goats or sheep. The news grew steadily worse. A hospital train organised for the wounded had been taken over at Wörth by panic-stricken soldiers, Strasbourg was surrounded, the cavalry was useless, and the Emperor too old and slow.

The first troops from Forbach arrived the following day, crossing the city to the camps on the west in an interminable stream, staggering with weariness, some of them without weapons or equipment. There was a smell of defeat in the air and the weary men were throwing away their rifles and knapsacks and stumbling into doorways to fall asleep.

The rumble of wheels and clatter of hooves went on all night and occasionally they heard outbreaks of drunkenness. The wagons were still struggling through the following morning, with the artillery trains, baggage carts, field smithies and spare horses, the soldiers begging for food and water so that women were running in and out of the houses with pails and plates. Then they heard that a train had been derailed at Commercy by Uhlans and they rode the thirty miles south to find out. It turned out that the Uhlans had had no part in it, but a troop train had run into a civilian train. As the surviving soldiers were formed up alongside the track and marched off, the dead were being brought out and laid in a nearby field. Dozens of foreigners, some of them with their own carts and carriages, the only organised help there seemed to be, were working in the wreckage and Colby and Ackroyd helped to drag out a woman with both her legs broken. Her chest was crushed and the bones were sticking out, and she was covered with blood and wailing that her child was still in the debris.

It was late when they got back to Metz where they learned that the story about the Prussians cutting the line was not so wrong after all. It was merely a different line – the one to the west that was needed for the retreat.