Fire and Sword

them.’

The blood drained from Berthier’s face. ‘Oh, no . . .’

He looked round and saw the line of shooters besieged by the wave of hungry rabbits. Already some of the Emperor’s guests were in a retreat, some angered and some amused as the little beasts followed them. Then, as a fluke waft of breeze brought the scent of the banquet down the slope, the rabbits rose on their haunches, tiny noses quivering, and then surged up the slope. Berthier’s heart sank at the sight.

‘Berthier!’ Napoleon called out furiously. ‘You fool! You dunderhead! ’

Throwing down his weapon in disgust, the Emperor stalked back up the hill towards his carriage. The first of the rabbits had reached the tables and the more hysterical of the female guests were rushing for the shelter of the carriages, some screaming. Berthier looked round, mouth agape, as picnic tables were upset and men and rabbits ran hither and thither in the chaos.

Reaching his carriage, Napoleon climbed the steps and threw himself down on the seat, slamming the door behind him. And then froze. Sitting on the opposite seat was a small rabbit, watching him warily.

‘Bastard,’ Napoleon muttered, launching himself across the gap and grasping a handful of writhing fur and kicking feet. Holding it at arm’s length, he thrust the rabbit towards the carriage window and dropped it on the ground. ‘Driver!’

‘Sir?’

‘Take me back.’

‘To Fontainebleau, sir?’

‘Where else, you idiot?’

The driver cracked his whip and the carriage lurched forward. Ignoring the scene outside, Napoleon slumped down, arms crossed, the darkest of expressions on his face.

He did not move until the carriage stopped in front of the entrance to his country house, and then he climbed down from the coach as swiftly as possible and strode up the stairs to the door being held open for him by a footman. Inside, the hall seemed dark and cold after the dazzling light and warmth of the summer day, and Napoleon paused to let his eyes adjust. Halfway down the hall a figure abruptly rose from one of the padded benches outside the Emperor’s suite of offices.

‘Who’s that?’ Napoleon called out as the figure marched towards him.

‘Courier from Paris, sire.’ The figure halted and dimly Napoleon made out the features of a young dragoon officer. The officer saluted crisply and held out a despatch. ‘From the War Office.’

Napoleon tore open the seal and opened the document out. He moved back into the light beaming from the entrance and read the contents through quickly, then the main points once more, before he folded it up again and thrust it towards the courier.

‘Take this. Do you know the estate at Cerbiere?’

‘Y-yes, sire. I think so.’

‘Well, do you or don’t you?’

‘I do, sir.’

‘Then ride there as fast as you can. Ask for the shooting party, and then find Marshal Berthier.Tell him I want him back here immediately. Tell him the British have landed an army in Denmark. Got that?’

‘Yes, sire.’ The officer nodded. ‘Denmark.’

Denmark, Napoleon mused. Why Denmark? The Danes were not allied to France; they were neutral. So why invade them? He frowned, and muttered, ‘What are they thinking? What are the British devils up to now?’

Chapter 34

Arthur

Sheerness, 31 July 1807

There was no putting it off any longer, Arthur realised. It would be the very last task he carried out before he boarded HMS Prometheus. The warship lay at anchor, a quarter of a mile from the wharf, and he could see her clearly through the window of the room he had taken in a Harwich inn. In the dying light he stared at the dark hull with the two broad stripes of yellow indicating her gun decks. Above towered the masts and spars, seemingly caught like insects in the intricate web of her rigging. The brigade that Arthur commanded had already boarded the Prometheus and the large merchant ships anchored astern of the warship. The men were packed along the decks, crowded in with the sailors and marines. More men, together with equipment and supplies, were loaded in the holds of the merchant ships.

The loading was complete and it only remained for Lord Cathcart, the commander of the expeditionary force, to give the order for the fleet to put to sea. As yet the destination of the force was known only to a handful of men in the government and Lord Cathcart, who had been told in the last few days before departure. He had told his senior officers where they were headed - Denmark - but nothing about the purpose of sending the army there. It was puzzling, since Britain was not at war with the Danes. Not yet. Arthur shook his head wearily. Portland’s government seemed hell-bent on provoking neutral powers. The recent policy allowing the Royal Navy to seize vessels, of any nation, suspected of trading with France had outraged them all.

With a sigh, he pulled a sheet of paper across the desk and reached for his pen. He dipped the nib into the inkwell, tapped off the excess and held the pen over the blank sheet.This was not going to be an easy letter to write. As far as Arthur knew, Kitty had no idea that he was about to sail off to war. He knew that he should have told her long before, but Kitty being the nervous, uncertain creature that she was he had told himself that it would be best to present her with a fait accompli, rather than letting her fret for weeks while he prepared his men for war. It did occur to Arthur that this delay in informing her might be construed as ignoble, and have the odour of cowardice, but those who knew Kitty as he did would be well aware that the delay was for the best. He drew a deep breath and began.

My Darling Kitty, I write to tell you that I am to embark on a ship this night to join a small army