A Civil Contract

the ridiculous theories being put forward about the progress of the war; but as the evening wore on he ceased to be amused. He began to be irritated, and several times responded to remarks addressed to him with a shortness which bordered on incivility. He moved away presently, wondering why the pessimists should be so much more numerous and vociferous than the optimists. He was a little surprised to find that absurdities could make him angry; but he thought that  those who spread ominous stories, which were invariably vouched for as having emanated from trustworthy sources, deserved to be given a sharp set-down. Only fools placed the slightest credence in reports repeated by prattleboxes who had heard them from a friend to whom they had been told by someone who had met a man just arrived from Belgium, but when everyone must be feeling a considerable degree of anxiety it was really criminal to disseminate rumours that could only serve to encourage despondency. He removed himself out of earshot of the war-group, and sat down to glance through the latest issue of the Gentleman’s Magazine. There was nothing in it of interest; he tried to read one article, but found his mind wandering, perhaps because two elderly gentlemen distracted him by arguing hotly on the respective merits of Turner and Claude. Fragments of other conversations reached his ears: the Panorama in Leicester Fields, somebody’s latest witticism, somebody’s run of luck at macao: it was incredible that people could be absorbed in such fripperies at such a moment! His head had begun to ache; he felt depressed, and realized that he was very tired. That accounted for his inability to concentrate his mind on a dull article. It was time he went to bed. He left the club, and walked up the street to his hotel, telling himself that a good night’s sleep was all that was needed to restore him to that mood of supreme confidence which had possessed him all day.

He had expected to drop asleep immediately, but no sooner had he closed his eyes than his brain became active, thinking of the day’s transactions, speculating on what might have happened across the Channel. He tried to drag it away from the war, and to fix it instead on the schemes he had made for the improvement of his estate, but it was too strong for him. His body ached with fatigue, but whatever position he adopted was uncomfortable within a very few minutes, and the wearier he became the livelier grew his brain. He told himself that his diminishing confidence was a mere reaction from his previous elation, remembering how often, after a hard-won battle, a fit of dejection had succeeded the mood of triumph and rejoicing; but the endless argument in his head went on and on. Doubt shook him; defeat, which had seemed the remotest of possibilities, became probable; far larger in his brain than the memories of Talavera, Salamanca, Vittoria loomed the thought that Wellington had never before faced Napoleon himself. He had laughed at the people who had said that to him, but it was true: Massena had been the best of the Marshals sent against Wellington, a good general, but not a Napoleon. It was also true, of course, that Wellington had never lost a battle, but that could be said of any general before his first defeat. Struggling against this creeping conviction of disaster, he thought of all the splendid fellows who had made up the Peninsular Army: drunken rascals, perhaps, but more than a match for three times their number of Frogs, as they had proved again and again. All very well in attack, Johnny Crapaud, but when it came to a dogged stand there were no soldiers in the world that bore comparison with the British.

The flicker of confidence flared high for a moment, and sank. There were too many foreigners in this new Army of Wellington’s, too many raw battalions. The recruit who had never been shot over might perform prodigies of valour, but it was only the seasoned soldier who could be trusted to maintain his ground in the face of determined attack. The Allied Army was not the Peninsular Army: it was a polyglot force, stiffened certainly by veteran Regiments, but its ranks swelled by such unknown quantities as the Dutch-Belgians, the Brunswickers (many of whom, Major Rowan wrote, were mere children), and Hanoverian Landwehr battalions.

In the small hours of the morning the realization came to Adam that he had acted like a madman, and until a restless, nightmare-ridden sleep overcame him he endured worse agonies than any he had suffered under the surgeons’ hands.

When Kinver drew back the blinds in his room, and he awoke, the more lurid of his imaginings seemed absurd, but he got up feeling more jaded than when he had retired to bed, and not much more hopeful.

He was never afterwards able to recall what he had done during that interminable day. When the newspapers appeared they contained the first accounts of actions fought on the 16th and the 17th June. Making every allowance for exaggerations and misapprehensions, they did not afford very reassuring reading. There was no official despatch: a sure sign that the actions at Ligny and Quatre-Bras had been the prelude merely to the main battle, of which no news had yet reached London.

A nasty business, Quatre-Bras: that much was evident. Boney had taken the Duke by surprise: the miracle was that Ney did not seem to have pressed home his attack on a force he must have known to be numerically far inferior to his own. Forgetting his personal anxieties, Adam thought that they must have stood like heroes, the fellows who held the ground until Picton brought up the Reserve, midway through the afternoon. Dutch-Belgians, too: well, that was cheering, at all events! But Picton had been badly cut up, and there was no mention of any British cavalry. A scrambling, desperate fight it must have been, attended by big losses, but mercifully inconclusive. The cavalry skirmishes at Genappe on the 17th furnished exciting material for the journalists’ pens, but were relatively unimportant. The worst news was that the Prussians seemed to have been shockingly mauled, and flung back in disarray. There was even a rumour that Blücher had been killed; and where the Prussians were now, whether re-forming, or retreating, no one knew. It might be a serious business, Adam thought, if their officers failed to get them together again.

Trying to build up a picture of the situation from unreliable reports was not easy, but for a short time Adam felt more hopeful, taking comfort from the reflection that although the Reserve must be terribly weakened Wellington had been able to withdraw his troops in good order, and, apparently, without being much harassed by the enemy. There was no more published news, but as the day dragged on more and more ominous rumours reached London, and were passed from mouth to mouth. The Allied Army had endured a crushing defeat; the remnants of it had fallen back in disorder on Brussels, and had been seen defiling out through the Antwerp gate; deserters from the battlefield had been encountered as far away as Ghent and Antwerp, telling of an unprecedented bombardment, overwhelming attacks by enormous forces of cavalry, hideous carnage.

Adam recognized the falsity of much of what he heard, but it was impossible to maintain optimism under the cumulative weight of reported disaster. When not one scrap of reassuring news was received one could no longer laugh rumours to scorn: even if the stories were grossly exaggerated they must be founded on truth, and one was forced, at last, to confront, not the possibility of defeat, but the incredible certainty of it. The confidence which had burnt like a flame in Adam all the previous day, sunk to embers during the night, and then flickered fitfully but with diminishing strength with his efforts to keep it alive, was not quite dead when he walked down the street to Brooks’s that evening. It still smouldered, but with such a tiny glow that he was barely conscious of it. He felt rather numb, as though he had been battered into insensibility. He tried to realize that the Army had been beaten, but the words conveyed nothing to his brain: they were as meaningless as gibberish. It was easier to realize that he had completed the work of bringing his house to ruin. In the throes of reaction, he had uttered aloud: “My God, what have I done?” in horror at what then seemed an act of madness, but he had still been able to cherish the hope that his gamble would yet prove successful. The little spark of hope that lurked beneath despair and self-blame was no more based on reason than the disbelief that flashed into his brain when some fresh tale of ignoble rout was forced on him. He knew that when he had staked everything he possessed, even Fontley, he had not thought it a gamble, but he could not recapture the confidence that had then prompted him, or understand how he could have been so crassly, so wickedly stupid as to fly in the face of Mr Chawleigh’s advice, and of Wimmering’s entreaties.

The club was crowded, and, for once, very few of its members were in the card-room. Everyone was talking about the reports from Belgium, but there was no fresh news, not a hint that any word had been received at the Horse Guards from the Duke’s Headquarters. In. the large room overlooking St James’s Street Lord Grey was proving to the apparent satisfaction of a numerous audience that Napoleon was established in Brussels at that moment. Napoleon had two hundred thousand men across the Sambre, which set the question beyond argument. Nobody attempted to argue; Sir Robert Wilson began to read aloud a letter which confirmed the rumour that what was left of the Army had evacuated Brussels, and was retreating to the coast.

An elderly stranger, standing beside Adam before one of the windows, said in an angry undervoice: “Gammon! Pernicious humdudgeon! I don’t believe a word of it, do you?”

“No,” Adam replied.

The babel of voices rose; peace terms were being discussed. The noise stopped suddenly as someone said sharply: “Listen!”

The sound of cheering could be heard in the distance. It drew nearer. Adam’s unknown companion thrust his head out of the window, peering up the street in the failing light. He said: “It’s a chaise, I think. Yes, but — here,