Inferno (13 page)

Opposite, a train of brilliantly clad figures began to form up and the procession slowly wound down to the riverside.

‘The Tsar!' gasped a lady behind her fan.

It was indeed the Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, of Moscow, Kiev, Vladimir, Lord and Grand Duke of Nizhny Novgorod, Sovereign of Chernigov, the Tsar Alexander I, and until three weeks ago an implacable enemy.

Boats arrived at each bank and the principals were rowed out to the pavilion. Simultaneously they stepped into it by opposite portals. The hangings were drawn firmly across and all functionaries retreated in their respective boats, leaving the two leaders in solitary splendour.

It had happened. Behind the rich drapery the world was in the process of being dismantled.

After an hour the entertainment palled, then someone noticed a lone figure in glittering court dress pacing up and down on the bank, lost and forlorn.

‘Who's that?' Meyen asked innocently, although he knew full well.

‘You'd never credit the sight!' the Duchess Izvolsky gushed. ‘It's Friedrich Wilhelm himself, poor man!'

The King of Prussia, excluded from the meeting that would decide if his country could continue to exist after this day, or perhaps should be shared out among the great powers as so recently Poland had been, now a forgotten relic of past ages.

Late in the afternoon the principals emerged. They were seen to embrace before they took boat and urgent speculation began.

That evening was one of gaiety and tension, pomp and formality as everyone flocked to the greatest and most glittering ball ever seen – but not a whisper emerged of what had transpired on the raft.

It was an extraordinary night. Conquerors and the conquered mixed with the utmost refinement; nobles of ancient houses fearing for their very existence received the most elegant of bows; and at the banquet Napoleon Bonaparte sat next to Tsar Alexander while exchanging platitudes with the King of Prussia.

Meyen had been engaged to attend at the banquet and he wasted no time in adding to his store of rumour, opinion and fact. He slipped in and out of the breathtaking mêlée, imperturbable, unctuous, attentive – and invisible.

Mere archdukes were spurned for princes, generals for marshals, while all eyes were continually turning to the high table where Napoleon Bonaparte himself was on show to all the world at his greatest and most glittering triumph.

The next day Bonaparte went riding with the Tsar before resuming deliberations on the raft.

There seemed little doubt that the two emperors had reached an understanding, and that the Tsar had not been confronted with impossible demands as a prelude to a catastrophic resuming of the war. The presumption was that a dividing process must be under way. What would be the result?

It was said that the beautiful Queen Louise of Prussia had
come to intercede personally with Emperor Bonaparte, but had been coldly scorned. It was further rumoured that the cynical and ambiguous Talleyrand, foreign minister of the French Empire, had been refused attendance by his master after objecting to the scale of his demands.

Three more days passed. Then, quite abruptly, the proceedings concluded. Each emperor retired to his side of the river and all Tilsit waited in unbearable tension.

A little after midnight all was resolved.

Ink still wet from the printers, a bill was distributed, the treaties and expressions of resolve made public.

Meyen snatched one and scanned it.

What he saw made him act immediately. With gold coin, he secured a private carriage and headed urgently for the north.

T
he British ambassador to Russia, Lord Granville Leveson Gower, had not been invited and, even as representative of a principal ally, hadn't expected to be. He'd heard of the theatrical meeting on the raft and knew that events beside the Neman were rushing to a climax that threatened Britain as nothing else had done, but he was helpless to do anything about it.

Alone in his study that night, there were dispatches to write up. They could contain little of substance for he was not a spectator but a helpless pawn, holding a travesty of a diplomatic presence there, going through the motions of one disinterested in anything the French were doing.

Then Meyen arrived.

‘Good heavens, man! You're looking dreadful – come in, come in. A restorative?' Gower fetched a glass and the brandy decanter from the sideboard. Drawn and pale, the man was restless, driven, not the controlled and smooth cosmopolitan he had last seen. ‘You've news?'

‘Of course. I came as soon as I could. Sir, what do you know of the meeting of emperors?'

‘I've heard nothing beyond that they met in a pavilion on a raft. There've been rumours but—'

‘Then prepare yourself. There is an agreement. Europe is to be divided between the two. Alexander has been duped by the tyrant and is in his power. Sir, we are lost!'

The news was devastating. The two emperors had achieved their agreement, a treaty of friendship that was stark and clear in its implications. Russia was out of the war and now in a state of amity and concord with France. The alliance with Britain was dead, leaving her quite alone, with not a single friend of consequence on the continent.

Prussia was spared – but at a cost. Half of its territories would go to the newly created Kingdom of Westphalia to be ruled by Bonaparte's brother Jérôme. Its lands from the partition of Poland would be handed over to the equally new Duchy of Warsaw. And the two emperors would assist each other to bring peace to the world: France would proffer its best offices in treating with the Ottomans, and Russia would offer to mediate in a peace treaty with Great Britain.

The ambassador slumped back, appalled. Meyen was right: it could not possibly be worse.

Since the beginning of the wars British strategy had been to deploy the wealth from its industrial might in subsidies and arms to any nation that stood against Bonaparte. It had been remarkably successful so far – but it had relied on two factors that now no longer existed.

No nations of consequence continued to resist. And with the entire continent in Bonaparte's power, the industrial products that generated Britain's wealth could not be sold into a continental market that the Emperor controlled absolutely.

Meyen's overheard information was priceless and revealing – yet it did not change the essence of what had happened on the raft. But Gower now had an idea of the cynical scrabbling and manoeuvring among the lesser powers to readjust to the reality of the situation. He knew that they no longer saw Britain as a player in the big game.

The man was paid and Gower left to his thoughts. They were bitter and helpless. It was not Britain's fault, she had lost no battle – but Bonaparte had won the war.

He got out pen and paper and set about preparing his dispatch, which he knew would shock his countrymen to the core. He had barely started when an expressionless under-secretary handed him a note. It was in bad French but to the point. A friend of England had secret and powerful information for his ears alone. Well placed in the Tsar's court, he was privy to secrets that would bear grievously on his conscience should he fail to disclose them. If Gower wished to hear them, he must allow himself to be conducted, unattended, to a private room where the writer, not wishing to be identified, would speak to him through a curtain.

‘The one who brought this, is he …?'

‘He waits below, my lord.'

The private room was not far away, evidently chosen hastily for the occasion. Inside there was a dividing makeshift chintz screen and Gower was ushered to a solitary chair next to it.

‘You have information for me, I believe.'

‘I haf, lord.' The voice on the other side was muffled but Gower thought he knew who it was. It didn't matter: he could establish authentication in other ways.

‘Then in order for me to assess your standing, you will tell me the appearance in court of the lady of Count Speransky.'

‘Ha! He is a vidow.'

‘Very good. In the Tsar's throne room, do you enter from right or left?'

‘None. From ze centre, bowing much.'

‘Yes, that is so. May I then hear your information, sir?'

What he heard sent him into a chill of despair for it multiplied the danger England faced to a near intolerable pitch.

It seemed the Treaty of Tilsit had two faces, public and secret, both equally binding. The public one he knew of, but there had been agreed secret covenants far too dangerous in their implications to be let known, even to the respective governments. The canny Bonaparte had dangled the promise of ‘common cause' before the callow Alexander. In the matter of the Ottomans, Russia would at last achieve the cherished dream of Catherine the Great: the conquest of Constantinople and its reverting to Orthodox Christianity. In the event of difficulties, France would show common cause with Russia in the contest. On the other hand Alexander would mediate in the imposing of severe peace terms on England, which, if refused, would result in his showing common cause with France.

To Gower it was a nightmare. In one stroke a land route for the invasion of India had been created, and by the same, Russia would be free to enter the Mediterranean as a great power. Yet the greater significance was that Russia was not only out of the war but had changed sides. From now, with all its millions, it would be an active enemy.

While he tried to grapple with the reality, the Russian behind the curtain spluttered with helpless indignation at how Alexander had been taken in. The Tsar had held out for the preservation of Prussia, true, thinking it to be a
buffer between him and the French, but he'd been outsmarted by Bonaparte, who had delayed the evacuation of his troops from the rump of Prussia until reparations had been paid. He had demanded an impossible sum and therefore the country would remain under French occupation.

There was now little doubt as to the shape of this new world. The only question left: where would Napoleon turn next?

With a heavy heart Gower returned to his study and his dispatch. It was essential to get it to London as fast as possible, but with as much material evidence at this crucial time as he could muster. It was hard going, his phrases coming across even to him as plaintive and defensive.

Starting with his exclusion from the fateful stage he went on to detail how, as ambassador to Russia, he saw developments:

‘Bonaparte has obtained complete possession of the mind of the Emperor Alexander … who has become a dupe of his insidious flattery …' He pictured the ambitious and impatient Canning reading his words and stiffened them. ‘I see nothing other than that unless you make peace England will be engaged in war with the whole of Europe at intolerable cost … The most deadly blows are aiming at the very existence of the country: for be assured that the dangers which threaten England at this moment infinitely exceed what we ever before apprehended …'

There was nothing more he could do.

‘P
rime Minister, I must protest!' the secretary of state for war said, as the Duke of Portland entered the Cabinet Room. ‘This news is of monumental importance and you've granted us but an hour to prepare for this meeting.'

‘As you say, Lord Castlereagh, the matter is of dire significance to the realm and therefore an early and sufficient response is required, I believe.'

‘All the same, sir, we cannot simply—'

‘Shall we move on, do you think?' Canning's sarcasm was not lost on Castlereagh, who shot the man a look of venom.

‘We shall leave aside our differences for now, gentlemen, and see if there's something we might do.' As Portland cautiously gathered his thoughts, his frail, aged figure was in stark contrast to the youth and vigour of those sitting around the table. ‘My own position is settled, I feel sorry to say,' he said uncertainly.

He stared down at the table for so long that Canning interrupted heavily, ‘And pray what is that, my lord?'