The Twisted Sword (29 page)

But Grant had said Wellington desperately lacked seasoned troops; at the most ten thousand were his old comrades in arms who had driven the French out of Spain. Many even of the other English in his makeshift army were untried youths. It was a matter of luck where Jeremy was and how he fared. There was no virtue in comforting oneself with false hopes. The real comfort was to remember all the bloody battles Geoffrey Charles had survived almost all the bitterest fighting of the Peninsular War before he married and retired safely on half-pay. God, what a prospect if Bonaparte won this battle! Belgium would be his; the Alliance against him would break up; Austria, to avoid being crushed, would return the Empress and their son; even Spain might again be invaded. Had England the stomach for another long war? Had it even the stomach to solve its own domestic problems? The two copies of The Times he had received had given him a fair sample of the feeling of the House when it was debating the Corn Bill. He should have been there, making his angry protest, instead of allowing himself to become a useless pawn in the international game. And his other child, Clowance; she was safe enough in Penryn. But, try as he might, Ross could not bring himself actually to become fond of his son-in-law. There was something meretricious about his bounding energy and good spirits; he was so open and outgoing in his behaviour that one never got near enough to him to know him any better. But Clowance did; presumably she saw him more clearly than most, perceived the real sincerity that his slightly sham sincerity served to hide. Of course the sexual lure could distort a woman's view; yet Clowance was a very blunt and honest person and it was unlikely she would marry someone without genuine virtues. One expected too much. It was natural that fathers-in law and sons-in-law should have a mild antipathy. Did he feel differently about his daughter-in-law? In the year just gone, when Jeremy had been made so outrageously unhappy by her betrothal to Valentine Warleggan, he had felt the strongest possible dislike for the girl and all her feeble Trevanion clan. When the engagement was broken - by Valentine not by her! - it was he, Ross, who had advised Jeremy to go to Caerhays Castle and more or less help himself to the girl; grab her, take her off, make up her silly indecisive mind for her; and Jeremy had done just this, with the most brilliant of results. Even so, Ross had some ambivalent feelings about the reliability of his daughter-in-law.

At least she had conquered Demelza. Demelza had written how good and charming she had been during her stay in Brussels. And she was with child. Well, he supposed it was time he was a grandfather! He must have slept for quite a time, for the day was nearly spent when he rolled over in the straw and sat up to see a man in the doorway. When he came out of the bright light of the slanting sun Ross saw it was Andre. He was holding his hand to his ragged arm, and there was blood on his hand. He sagged and came in and sank in a chair and said something Ross did not understand.

'Can you speak French?' Ross asked, getting to his feet.

'Where is Colonel Grant?'

'Gone to Namur. He should be back soon. You are wounded?'

'It is nothing. A musket ball. They are flying very fast out there, and you are lucky if you do not collect one or two even though they are meant for someone else. Have you water?'

Ross took a flask across to him. There was not much in it, and Andre drained it.

'You delivered the message? You were on the way back?'

Andre looked at him sidelong. 'It is time Colonel Grant is back?'

'No doubt. But we must wait. Let me see the wound.'

The sleeve was slit anyhow and easily moved up to show the blood oozing from an ugly hole above the elbow. Ross said: 'Is there water nearby?'

'There is a stream. Turn left out of the barn. But I do not think you need to bother. I have seen many in a very much worse condition today.'

When Ross came back with the flask full he found the thin man sprawled with closed eyes against the side of the chair. He opened them when Ross bathed the wound and wrapped it tightly with a piece of cloth.

'I am not mortally hurt,' said Andre. 'But I have lost much blood. I think I may faint.'

Ross brought him a cup of wine; he was able to sip it; his eyes were flickering.

'Bring my horse in here - else he may be seen.'

Ross did this, and unsaddled the animal, which was slippery with sweat, foam flecking from his mouth. When he went back to Andre his eyes were shut and he was breathing heavily. He stood beside him for a few minutes and then went to sit in his chair, ate a few mouthfuls of the bread and sausage, which was all he had left. Presently the man said: 'Monsieur.'

Ross went instantly back.

'Monsieur, in case the Colonel Grant should be a long time and I have gone unconscious -- or perhaps if Colonel Grant should not come back, I must tell you I have not delivered the message.'

'What? Were you wounded and unable to get through?'

'No, no.' Andre paused for breath. 'I arrived behind the English positions and was arrested by ... a cavalry patrol. I was identified and told them I had . .. important message for the Commander-in-Chief. Was taken - I was taken at once to the Brigade Commander, General Dornberg, who ... who took it upon himself to open the message I carried. Thereupon he kept me for some hours .. . and then returned the message saying Colonel Grant was ... was wrong in his conclusions and said he was certain the main - main attack would still be towards Mons.'

Ross brought back the cup of wine and helped Andre drink some. As he did so there was a footstep and he quickly turned, aware that he only had a knife within reach. But even in the semi-darkness Grant's stiff figure was recognizable.

He came over and stood in front of Andre. The man tried to struggle into a sitting position.

'M le Colonel--'

'I heard,' said Grant. And then: 'Where is the message?'

Andre indicated an inner pocket of his jacket. Ross felt inside and pulled out the letter, on which the seal was broken.

Grant took the letter and held it between finger and thumb. 'Dornberg! God damn the man! May the devil have mercy on him, for I should not!'

'Dornberg?' said Ross. 'A Prussian?'

'A Hanoverian! Like our royal family! Major-General Sir William Dornberg is in command of the 1st and 2nd Light Dragoons of the King's German Legion. Some of our finest troops! He fought for Napoleon until two years ago, when he changed sides! It all smacks of treachery...' Grant thumped one hand into the other and tramped about the barn. 'But more likely it just smacks of bungling incompetence. Wellington, in my view mistakenly, gave this fool the responsibility for transmitting to Brussels the reports of the various agents as they came in. He has grossly exceeded his duty by attempting to judge the value of the reports for himself! My God, this might turn the course of the battle! The man should be court-martialled and shot!' Grant turned to the wounded Belgian. 'Are you sure General Dornberg did not pass on the report in any letter of his own?'

'That I do not know, man colonel But the view he expressed in my hearing was that your report only went to prove that the present... present attack ... was a feint.'

Grant swore under his breath again and again. Ross could see his whipcord figure trembling with anger.

'Where are Marcel and Julius? They were bringing a horse for Captain Poldark.'

'They said at sunset, mon colonel They should be here ... at any time.'

'I will take the report myself,' said Grant. 'It will be late, but not perhaps too late to be of value. Andre, which way did you go?'

'Through Fontaine l'Eveque and then I struck north. I was trying ... to avoid the troop concentrations.'

'Would I run into trouble if I went via Gosselies and Frasnes?'

'There is so much movement. At night you might be able to thread a way through.'

'The damned moon is growing.' Grant opened his bag and took out some bread, a cooked chicken, peaches. 'Eat some of this, Poldark. I have no doubt you have been on short commons all day.'

'Why do you not let me take the letter?' Ross suggested. Grant appeared to consider, then shook his head. 'No. It is a good thought but I must go myself. Unless I personally put this into the hands of the Duke I shall not rest easy. Perhaps I should have gone this morning; but there was more here for me to do, and I did not in all faith believe that one bungling fool could put everything at risk.'

'I shall have the only fresh horse,' said Ross. Again Grant shook his head. 'I'm sorry, no, Poldark, but I must take it. If you give my mare or Andre's horse the night to recover you can take one of them. They are excellent beasts. Follow me tomorrow night, or make for the coast.'

'I'm sorry, Grant,' Ross said in his turn. 'Having come this far, I am not to be disposed of like some inconvenient parcel. You are in authority and I cannot stop you taking my horse. The horses outside are spent, but my little pony which has brought me all this way has been resting all day. I can travel on that.'

Grant tore off a drumstick and began to eat it. Then he nodded. 'So be it. Look, if you want it that way, you shall take the letter, by God. That is what you suggested, isn't it? I need no letter. I shall report direct to Wellington or not at all. I shall go on the faster mount, but if I am unlucky and am captured or killed, you may bear him the original message, for what good it may do any of us now.'

'Thank you,' said Ross.

'Hush,' said Andre, stirring. 'That is Marcel. I know his footstep.'

One of the results of Jeremy's recent promotion was that most of the men in his company were strangers to him. There were about forty seasoned soldiers, most of them campaigners from the Peninsular War, among them the quartermaster sergeant, a rough, tough Welshman called Evans, known as Quack Evans, because he strutted like a duck. Jeremy felt he was much on trial; such men, uncouth and uneducated though they were, knew far more about war than he would ever know. Most of the other men were new recruits, country lads, gaolbirds, poachers, debtors, anyone who would take the King's shilling - or had been tricked into it - whose main awareness of the world was that life was nasty, brutish and short. John Peters, the farmer's son from Wiltshire, who was still an ensign, had been transferred with Jeremy, and Jeremy's batman, John Sanders, had been with him six months. His two lieutenants were called Bates and Underwood. Bates was from Lincolnshire, and he had known him at the Forties Club. Underwood was a stranger. Braine-le-Comte was a pretty village, but by the time Jeremy and his company arrived there it was crowded with Hanoverian troops and their baggage wagons, whom they had to thread and almost fight a way through.

At the other side there was a steep climb to some foothills, and guns were being hauled up there; hussars and dragoons weregetting in each other's way, in a picture of such disorganization that Jeremy thought it unlikely he would ever find the Major Cartaret to whom he was supposed to report. Jeremy had ridden all the way on the ungainly but reliable piebald horse Santa, which he had bought in Willemstad last December, it being the practice for officers of infantry regiments to be mounted; but most of his troops were fagged out with the long march in the heat of the day, burdened as they each were with a haversack, a musket and bayonet and a hundred and twenty rounds of ball cartridge. In the way of British soldiers, they brightened noticeably when the sound of gunfire got closer. Presently, almost to everyone's surprise, Major Cartaret appeared, a slim, dapper man, and called Jeremy to him, explaining that they must make for Nivelles. This, it seemed, was where most of the firing was coming from and was about four miles away.

They reached Nivelles, a small town this, and beyond it a battle was taking place in the lush countryside, cannons thundering over the rye and the wheat, musketry crackling, clouds of smoke darkening the sky, soldiers moving here and there, the wounded staggering back towards the town. But this did not dissuade the townsfolk from standing in the doorways or crowding at open windows, watching and staring, some trembling and huddled together, but others cheering excitedly as at a fireworks display. On the outskirts of the town was a treelined square, and this was like a clearing station for the wounded. They lay everywhere, the dead and the dying together - two priests trying to comfort and help, some quite elegant ladies; and the wounded helping each other; one with a foot wound squatting and tying up the stump of a man without a hand, most of them ghastly from loss of blood, some crying out, many frightened at the thought that they were going to die for lack of medical help.

Jeremy still did not like the sight of blood, but he led the way forward. Then the road in front of him was suddenly full of soldiers coming the wrong way. A few were wounded but most seemed to be simply following a herd instinct to escape. It was a Belgian regiment and they shouted at Jeremy's company: ' Tout est perdu! Les Anglais sont vaincus! Tout est fini!' It took ten minutes for them to rush past and then the road ahead was suddenly ominously empty. An occasional shell burst overhead and there was the intermittent crack of muskets. After issuing his orders Major Cartaret had galloped off and had not been seen since. By the time they had gone another mile the sun was low in the sky, peering sidelong among the cumbrous trees. The wheels of a carriage behind rattling on the pave, just room for it to get past, going ahead of them; in it was a single Guards officer, his coat unbuttoned, snuff-box in hand. He took no notice of the company of tramping soldiers nor of the mounted officers in the van. He was presumably on his way to fight the French. Sight of him seemed to revive the tired men, and enabled Jeremy to have the strength of mind to keep them moving when they came to another hamlet where a large estaminet was surrounded by soldiers of all races taking their ease. Through the open windows you could see the rooms crowded with men, talking and arguing and smoking and drinking, and they were sprawled about outside too among their tired horses, drinking, resting, eating. Once out of sight and sound of this relaxation, Jeremy called a halt. Two food wagons were brought from the back of the column and rations were handed round. It was timethe men had a break, past time. They had marched far enough today, but his orders were so vague that he had little idea what to do next. There was still gunfire over the hill. It was no place to linger, this, for they were exposed on two sides, and there was little natural cover. Nor was there a stream, as there had been a mile or so back, where the men could refill their water bottles. He did not want to push on too far and blunder into the French. The guardsman in the cabriolet had clearly had no such apprehensions.

John Peters came up and squatted beside him.

'Permission to speak, sir,' he said with a grin.

'So long as it's sensible, John. I know you'd rather be back in Brussels with Marita.'

'Well, this grub's not quite up to La Belle Epoque.'

'What are the lads saying?' Jeremy asked. 'That we should have stopped by the estaminet?'

'One or two rolled an eye, I can tell you. But by and large, them having marched so far today, they'd like to see a bit of fighting before the day's out. You've got a tough lot, Jeremy, and they don't like to see men running away.'

'The day is nearly out,'Jeremy said, squinting at the last glints of the sun. 'Well, I'll give 'em another fifteen minutes and then we'll move on.'

The fifteen minutes was almost up when a horseman came galloping over the hill from the direction of the fighting. He reined in before Jeremy but did not dismount.

"There's been the very devil of a scrap just in the next valley, place called Quatre Bras. The Duke of Brunswick has been bad wounded and a lot of his men turned tail and ran for their lives. But we've drove the Frenchies back!'

There was no means of telling the rank or regiment of this solitary horseman because he was wearing a suit of embroidered royal-blue velvet and white pantaloons, and his shoes were dancing shoes. Presumably he had had no time to change since the Duchess of Richmond's ball. His horse was dead tired and hanging its head.

'Poldark,' said Jeremy. 'Captain, 52nd Oxfordshires. Major Cartaret is in command but I have not seen him for an hour.'

'Longland,' said the young man. 'Aide-de-camp to the Duke. The fighting's dyin' down now but it's been the very devil of a scrap. I doubt if there'll be much more till dawn. If your major don't turn up I'd advise you to make for Quatre Bras - that's the crossroads; you can't miss it, and bivouac in any convenient field you can find this side of it. There'll be more fun in the mornin', depend on it.' He gently tugged his horse's tired head up and went on his way.

II

So they marched on to the battlefield. A cluster of houses at the crossroads, and there was still some fighting in and out of these. All sorts of noises echoed in the hot evening air, cries of men in pain, the blowing of bugles, the neighing of horses, the crack of muskets, the whistle of bullets overhead, the distant boom of cannons and the explosions of shell. Great clouds of smoke rose from the thick woods beyond, and frightened birds were wheeling and crying. As they skirted the wood to approach the crossroads, they stumbled over corpses hidden in the tall grass. Groups of soldiers moved around the farmhouses, but there seemed no enemy among them now. A troop of cavalry about a hundred strong galloped suddenly across the fields and into the next wood. Jeremy called a halt and rode on ahead. It was now half dark, with the moon out, and there seemed to be no one in charge, but as he reached the crossroads he could see what carnage there had been. Dead horses, dead men were piled in heaps everywhere. The farmhouses were blasted and pitted with shot. The wounded men for the most part were lying untended where they had fallen or where they had crawled to. A cavalry officer suddenly appeared from the door of one of the houses, unlooped the reins of his horse and began to issue orders. As Jeremy came up to him he realized he was a major-general. Jeremy waited his turn, then saluted and reported.

'Poldark?' said the major-general. 'A Cornishman? This has been something of a scrap, by God. You just come? Yes, water your horses and men -- there's a well in the courtyard, though you'll have to wait your turn. Bivouac where you've the fancy; I do not think there will be a night attack, but post sentries.'

In the end they did not, for after watering their horses and feeding themselves from the wagons and what they carried in their pouches, they lay down in the long grass, surrounded at no great distance by great companies of men who were doing likewise; and presently, tired out, fell asleep. Just before he went off, listening to the muttering and murmuring of voices around him, Jeremy thought to himself, was ever a man or men in such a strange situation? Here we are, lying down in the warm cloudy moonlight in the very middle of a battlefield in which we have taken no part! Not fired a solitary shot. Quite nearby there are heaps of dead and many wounded, some dying. A few surgeons and medical orderlies are working through the night but their numbers are woefully small. A good man would go and join them, try to succour the casualties. He had heard at the well that the Gordon Highlanders had had a hand to hand confrontation with massed French infantry under Marshal Ney himself, and each side had fought the other to a standstill. There had been no ground given, no quarter asked, until the French had retreated with the fall of night. A good man would get up and try to help those who had fallen. But this good man, though not yet into the conflict, and with only one wounded of those under his command, was yet so exhausted with almost a day and a half of travel and the tension of his new command, that he put his head down on the dewy grass, thought of Cuby for a moment, and then fell asleep.

Ill

At six o'clock on the following morning with sultry clouds blocking out the rising sun, a group of senior officers were breakfasting in a draughty hut at a crossroads just south of Genappe, and waiting for news of the Prussians. A long table was covered with a white cloth; silver glinting in the morning light; the smell of bacon frying; of coffee; champagne bottles open among the crockery and the maps. The Duke of Wellington was at the centre of the table, other notable and noble figures gathered around him, and indeed there were so many that the numbers overflowed into the yard outside. The Duke's entourage had now increased to about forty men, including his own eight aides-de-camp and numerous staff officers such as Colonel Augustus Fraser, the commander of the Horse Artillery,

Colonel Sir William de Lancey, his American-born Chief of Staff and Lord Fitzroy Somerset. Added to them was Baron von Muffling, the Prussian liaison officer, Count Carlo Pozzo, representing the Russians, Baron Vincent for the Austrians, General Miguel de Alava, his old friend from Spain, and a half-dozen assorted English aristocrats, ready to fight if necessary but belonging to no unit, here to see the fray and all of them with too much influence in England to be summarily dismissed from the scene. On this group came a young staff officer who murmured something to the Commander-in-Chief. Wellington nodded. 'Send him in.'

A tall gaunt ragged middle-aged man limped in.

'Sir Ross,' said Wellington, 'so you have safely arrived!'

'Poldark!' exclaimed Lord Fitzroy Somerset, getting up and clasping his hand. 'I am relieved to see you. Welcome!'

'Thank you.' Ross smiled. With noticeably less of a smile he added: "Your Grace.'

'You were not unexpected,' said the Duke, 'so you will have guessed that Colonel Grant has preceded you.'

'I'm glad to know it, sir.'

'But by only a few hours. Six, in fact. He arrived at midnight with information which I would have given a brigade of infantry to have known twenty-four hours earlier. Now it is too late.'

'Too late, sir?'

'Too late to choose more suitable ground before the River Sambre. We must fight where we find ourselves, here among the rye fields.'

'Colonel Grant - he is well?' Ross said.

'Except for a natural chagrin that his message did not get through - which we all share.'

'I shall not need this, then, sir.' Ross took the original message from his belt and put it on the table. Fitzroy Somerset was at the open end of the improvised shelter. 'Grant said you could muster no more than a pony. If that's your mount outside it looks a very handsome pony!'

Ross's lips tightened. 'My pony was hit by a stray bullet yesterday. I found this horse riderless near Frasnes. It seems that it belonged to a French cavalry officer called Pelet who was under General Kellerman's command.'

Wellington said: 'Have you eaten?'

'Not since yesterday.'

'Then take a seat. Anders will make you some eggs.'

"Thank you, sir.'

Ross brushed some of the dirt off his clothes and took the seat offered him. Until now he had had no time to feel tired. From the conversation as he ate he gathered that Wellington was waiting for the return of an officer called Colonel Gordon who had been sent with a squadron of the 10th Hussars to reconnoitre the situation east towards Sombreffe. The Duke had recalled his advance posts last night on discovering only French and no Prussians on his flank.

'Poldark,' said the Duke suddenly, 'how did you come? Grant took a risk and rode almost directly along the Charleroi road, so he had nothing to report. What was your route?'

'I kept east of that road, but by how far I don't know. I stopped at an inn last evening, being almost too thirsty to care, and they were talking of a bitter battle in Ligny in which the Prussians had been driven back.'

'Defeated?'

"That was the impression I received, sir.'

'Blucher must surely send word soon. We are all ready for the French when he tells us he too is ready.'

Ross finished the eggs and bacon and sipped steaming coffee.

The Duke was looking at him again, penetrating eyes over beak nose. But there seemed to be no hostility in his look; any suspicion of the old days appeared to have gone.

'You have done well to get here, Sir Ross. But you are in effect a noncombatant. You have found your way from Verdun and should now return home.'

'I should like very much to return home,' said Ross,

'once the business here is finished.'

'You do not need to feel honourably detained.'

'Nor shall I for a moment, once this business is finished.'

The Duke sipped at his glass.

'Do you wish to remain as an observer?'

'I would like to take some more active part than that.'

'Colonel Grant is remaining on my staff as an additional aide-de-camp. Perhaps you would care to join him.'

'I'd be honoured, sir.'

'We should fit you out in better clothes,' said Fitzroy Somerset after a moment. 'That's if you do not mind wearing a uniform that the previous owner has no further use for.'

'I am not superstitious,' said Ross.

'There are two Poldarks in the army already,' said a red haired man at the table with the emblems of a colonel on his coat. 'One's a major in the 95th Rifles, the other a captain in the 52nd Oxfordshires. Major Poldark's a veteran from the 43rd. I knew him in Spain.'

'That must be my cousin, Geoffrey Charles,' Ross said.

'I thought he was still in Spain! By God, so he has come back into it again!' A batman poured him more coffee.

'The other I don't know. My son is an ensign, and I think is in the 52nd but perhaps ...'

'J. Poldark,' said the red-haired colonel. 'He was promoted last month.'

'To -- captain?' said Ross in astonishment. Wellington looked down the table at him. "Yes, I observed him myself last month. He has a grasp of things that I find valuable in a junior officer.'

Ross stirred his coffee, the steam drifting before his eyes.

'I have been interned three months. It might be three years.'

An orderly came in and spoke to Fitzroy Somerset.

'Colonel Gordon has arrived, sir. He is just coming up the road.'

A thick-set young man presently entered. Ross could see his horse outside sweating and foam splashed. He spoke in an undertone to the Duke, who however soon communicated his news to the men anxiously waiting.

'Old Blucher has had a damned good licking and retreated to Wavre. That must be all of twenty miles from here. We can expect no help from him today - indeed he is lucky to be alive. So we are on our own, gentlemen, and out on a limb, a promontory, a point, not easily defensible.'

No one spoke. The Duke got up and not for the first time Ross realized he was not a tall man. Only a few inches taller than the great man who opposed him. No one spoke, for they were waiting for the decision which might decide the fate of the battle, the fate of the war. Wellington said: 'Gentlemen, we must retreat.'

IV

Jeremy had been dreaming of champagne corks popping, and woke to the reality that it was almost full daylight and that the sounds he heard were muskets firing off in the woods to the right of Quatre Bras. In spite of the warm morning he found himself chilly, and he wrapped his cloak around him as he stood up. Men were sitting up all round him, stirring, yawning, stretching, wondering what the new day would bring. Some had already lit fires and were cooking what little food they had left. Jeremy was ravenously hungry, and while Sanders prepared a bite of breakfast for him he munched the remnants of a cake Cuby had given him. Some men were cleaning their arms, others talking and joking; no one seemed to be taking much notice of the smart skirmish on their right.

'Sir.' It was Quack Evans. 'Major Cartaret is here, with orders for the day.'

Jeremy brushed the crumbs off his uniform and walked across the field to greet his superior, who had just dismounted.

'Bad news for us, Poldark,' he said. 'The Prussians have been heavily defeated and we are isolated here. We must retreat.'

'Retreat? We have only just arrived, sir!'

'Colonel Coleborne's orders. But you have some satisfaction. Your company has been chosen to cover the retreat. You will stay here until all are gone, except G Troop Royal Artillery under Captain Mercer. You will then follow the other troops, and we shall expect you to link up with General Lord Edward Somerset when your task of delaying the enemy is done. His brigade of Guards is at present retreating on Genappe; but failing any later information you must find him as best you can.'

When he was gone Jeremy called his two lieutenants, Bates and Underwood, and the ensigns and the sergeants, and told them their orders. They were not well received, and he could see the ordinary soldiers reacting in a similar way when the news filtered down. After all, you could see the French camping on the slopes in the distance. What in hell was the good of marching all this way and then not having a go at them? Why, there was a bit of hot work going on in the woods nearby - if the company couldn't advance this might occupy their time. Grumbling, they disposed themselves in some sort of order and prepared to wait. Troops began to march past them, rode past them, artillery rumbling away, one regiment gradually appearing to fill the place of the one which had just left, all retreating towards Brussels. As the living thinned out you could more clearly see the dead, thickly strewn where they had fallen among the flattened rye or been thrown in heaps to clear the roadways. Some were nearly naked, having been stripped in the night by the peasantry; dead horses too robbed of their valuable harness. It was a depressing sight. About a mile away on the brow of a slight hill were G Troop of the artillery, the only troop, apart from Jeremy's company, who were not moving back. Jeremy wondered if it would be suitable to gallop across and have a word with his friend whom he had last seen on a happier day picnicking in Strytem. Since leaving Nivelles yesterday, there had been little sign of habitation. The few cottages to be seen were empty and were being used only as cover for the opposing forces.

People had fled; but the presence of looters showed some still lurked, possibly in the woods or the Forest of Soignes. Just then it began to rain. The clouds had been thickening since dawn, and now a torrential downpour cloaked off the farther hills. Very soon everyone was soaked through and hungry, the light breakfasts they had had long forgotten. When the rain ceased for a few minutes the only troops still in sight, apart from the battery on the hill, were a score of light dragoons trotting from the woods on the left and what looked like a full brigade of hussars moving through Quatre Bras. It was led by the general Jeremy had spoken to last night. Major Cartaret had said his name was Sir Hussey Vivian. As he came level with the company of infantry he reined in and said to Jeremy: You're covering the retreat in this area?'

'Yes, sir.'

He took out his glass and levelled it at the hills behind. Jeremy could see the ominous black patches beginning to move. White smoke was rising through the trees. Vivian said: 'That's the French. Lancers, I think. Supported by massed infantry. It's time to leave, lad.'

'Yes, sir.'

At that moment Captain Mercer's artillery opened fire at the advancing masses on the hillside. Vivian said to his orderly: 'That battery has been left with only sufficient ammunition for a token resistance. I saw their wagons on the road an hour ago. Send over and tell them to begin leaving in ten minutes. Polwhele.'

'Poldark, sir.'

'Ah yes. You're one of the North Coast breed. Is it your father who's MP for Truro?'

Yes, sir.'

'Thought so. I was born there. Went to the same school as he did - though later. Now look, get your men on the move right away. If the French come within musket shot give 'em a round or two; but no heroics. If you form square you'll be overwhelmed.'

There was a vivid, electric streak of forked lightning, followed by a clap of thunder which drowned the heavy barking of Captain Mercer's five nine-pounders. The storm raged overhead while the 52nd hastily fell into line. They had hardly begun to march when the French artillery opened up from among the trees.

V

In Brussels the guns could be clearly heard and seemed to be getting nearer. Crowds of English and Belgians stood on the ramparts of the city watching the passage of vehicles and men to and fro along the Charleroi road, and listening to the approaching battle. Cuby went up for a short time with the Turners. Grace Turner was also expecting a child but like Cuby she was staying with her husband, who was a secretary at the British Embassy. Gradually the word 'retreat' began to be heard, and, not long afterwards, 'defeat'. The Prussians, it was said, had been swept aside with dreadful losses. Then Bonaparte had turned upon Wellington. The young Duke of Brunswick, brother of the Princess of Wales, was dead: he had been mortally wounded trying to rally his inexperienced troops, who had broken and fled before the attack of the veteran French; Wellington and his staff had only just escaped capture. The victors were approaching the city.