Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 653
“I am aware that a sovereign must not be questioned, nevertheless, may I not ask your Majesty to consider how tiny a position I occupy in the cosmogony of Britain’s Empire and of how little avail my voice could prove? May I not draw your Majesty’s attention to greater signatories? May I not suggest, Sire, that you invite my patron Mr. Assheton Smith to be one. That he would readily do so your Majesty may believe when you consider that he is supporting this expedition with his unbounded resources.”
“He is supporting this expedition!” the Emperor said without emotion. “Well, the admirable de Frèjus has his mysteries.... But if the milor supports...”
He appeared somnolent. Suddenly he said like a thunderbolt:
“Cannot you then see that more and more the nations of the earth support me? Are you not aware that I have only to plant my feet on the cliffs of Dover and all the oppressed of your country would flock to meet me and triumphantly we should march on London as tomorrow we shall march triumphantly on Paris?”
The young man thought on Madame de Frèjus.
“Sire,” he said, “I am no Tom-Paine man, nor no Radical. Nor do I believe that your Majesty would stoop to obtain the support of the rabble!”
“Mon lieutenant,” his Majesty said, “you have little knowledge of your own country.”
“I am amazed at the knowledge that your Majesty possesses,” the young man answered, “but it is all against what I myself know. I do not believe that the rabble could ever take heart enough to march on the metropolis!”
“Young sir,” the Emperor said with some heat, “I assure you that the whole face of your country is impassable because of the marching of rebel bands.”... Even as Louis the Eighteenth had neglected to abolish the droit des réguliers so at the end of the last war. The British rulers refused to abolish the tax on the incomes of the poor, though they had promised it. War with America had cut off the corn of the poor. And what America did with English hands and genius should not England in her turn achieve? The boy had talked of rabble, but it would astonish him to hear the names of statesmen and politicians of his country — aye and of substantially wealthy philosophers of the middling classes, that visited the Emperor in Elba, offering him sympathy and assistance against his oppressors. If latterly he had cut off intercourse with almost all English visitors except those of the best-bred class, it was because he was afraid that your Sir Neil Campbell would report to the powers that be in England that he was conspiring with their subjects against their throne. But he had still the names of those correspondents, and they were thousands.... No, with scandal assailing the occupants of the throne, with hatred so great as is felt for such ministers as Liverpool or Canning or Castlereagh, with starvation, treason and red rebellion amongst the common orders, what emotions of liberty, what chords in the lyre of Freedom, should not sound across England at the news that the eagles of Napoleon were again on the wing and Napoleon once more at his old task of bringing freedom to the oppressed and food to the starving!
It was impossible that dejection should not sweep over the young man at this picture of the disasters of his country uttered in this earth-shaking voice. It seemed incredible that the green and fertile pastures over which his ancestors had reigned and which he himself must one day own — it seemed to him impossible that those green and fertile acres could know the shadow of disaster. Nevertheless he saw, in his mind’s eye, the great elms above his father’s house drooping as if with blight, the grass blackened by frosts, the wheat trampled by innumerable feet, the rose-gardens rooted up, the house — the great house itself, windowless, half unroofed, desolate.... So great was the spell of Napoleon’s voice!
Tears filled his eyes and then he perceived that the Demi-God himself had veiled the lightning of his glance.
“Why,” he said, “you are an admirable young man and I would not have you depart by one peccadillo from the dictates of your service and of your love for your country.”
The boy then sobbed.
“Sire,” he said, “I am so well assured of your goodness... your benevolence... your desire for peace...”
“Why,” the Emperor said, “you shall do what you will by word of mouth or by letter to your countrymen.” There were, he continued, already so many of them assured of his benevolence, disgusted at the way in which he had been despoiled by the Bourbons or discontented with their rulers, that it should need but a very few more — a very slight push to the snowball — to make Liverpool and Castlereagh — nay and Wellington himself — realize that even were an assault on an innocent and glorious country such as France no crime, the attempt should be unavailing for lack of men to follow their standards.
An immense dejection overcame the young man. They sat silent. Napoleon had crossed his white hands on his generous yellow waistcoat; into that space of gilding and red velvet through the open casement, over the tufts of violets that Perducet had planted in the window-boxes came the rippling conversation of wavelets about the stern and rudder, for the day was so smooth that they had scarcely steerage-way.
These light winds had much delayed them. It was then the 28th of February and they had only lately sighted the road of Noli, making for Frèjus. They had hoped to be far from Capraia on the morning of their sailing but dawn had found them between Capraia and Elba — and so it had been with the passing of Leghorn and all the way. But they might soon hope to be off Golfe Juan. They had sighted Antibes at noon.
Dejection!... For, if he knew little of his country itself at the moment and if Castlereagh and the others were just names to him, he knew enough of the Duke of Wellington and for that matter of the British soldiery to know that, once the hereditary enemy were in the field, there would be no holding them, at least, back. The Emperor knew an astonishing amount about England — but it was as if he knew it queerly, not so much wrongly as with such a distortion as you may see in certain mirrors that broaden you out, diminish you or turn you all askew....
So that there he stood between, as it were, two beloved but irreconcilable forces — as if his father should conceive a hatred for Mr. Assheton Smith and Mr. Assheton Smith for Squire Feilding. To his father he owed loyalty — but what admiration to the other!
There came into his mind some verses — Pope, maybe, or more likely, Dryden:
“Less than a god, they said, there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell
That spoke so sweetly and so well...
Less than a godhead could hardly inhabit that frame that confronted him across the table — there were omnipotence, benevolence, humour, the lightning flash, all knowledge, the power to exact awe, fear, affection, hatred and devotion to the death. In thousands of thousands of men!... But Gods have been slain! Gods have been slain!... And the unimpassioned face of the Duke of Wellington rose before his eyes.
Once, carrying a request for reinforcements, he had had to wait, mounted, for ten minutes, before the Duke could give him attention — on a hill, dominating a stretch of hilly territory. The Duke had sat motionless, smoke rose, lit with murky flashes; the thunder of cannon came up-from the valleys. The plumes of the cocked hat did not stir, the cloak draped the rider to the saddle; the horse distended its nostrils but never stirred....
And the boy had had the sense of a force that was neither human nor omnipotent — but superhuman and irremovable — and cold!
The Duke had said something, not very memorable, to an officer at his stirrup. Or rather, it had seemed not very memorable, because of the coldness of the tone and because in the same tone he had ordered that his servant lay out a meal for him, there beside his charger’s hoofs.
It had been:” We have them on their left. The guns are in position....”
He finally confronted the boy, unimpassioned, aquiline, slightly yellowish in complexion because he had lately suffered from an affection of the liver resembling jaundice; his eyes thin-lidded and cold.
“Tell your general,” he said, “that I have no reinforcements to send him. I cannot manufacture troops. He must hold his position. Vaillant will be withdrawing troops from in front of you for his left....”
He said to the officer at his stirrup:
“Better put that in writing. This boy is young!” He had added to the boy, as if speaking from a great height: “You will find that their attack, when you return, has sensibly slackened if it have not ceased altogether!”
It had frequently since occurred to Feilding to wonder why the Duke should have addressed those words to him. He was of no importance; there could be no reason for the Duke to deign to reassure him.... But it was no doubt in that way that great commanders spread their reputation for infallibility, the subalterns and recruits saying one among another such words as: “I heard the Duke say this or that: and it came true! Trust the Duke!”
As a matter of fact it had not come strictly true, for, on returning to his corps, he had found the enemy cavalry in among the guns and his own squadron almost annihilated.... Yet it had been near enough, for soon after the whole enemy forces had been in retreat, owing probably to the pressure on their left. So that if the Duke’s prediction had not been exactly fulfilled it had been because the enemy had been too slow in communicating their orders for retreat. That had been hardly the Duke’s fault.
At any rate the Duke remained for the boy a bronze statue and implacable.
How different from the Demi-God before him, who exhibited merely a kindly somnolence till it suited him to throw his lightnings or employ his indefatigable industry! He imagined a confrontation of the two — Napoleon all bonhomie, vivaciousness, geniality and persuasion — or for the matter of that threatening. And the other cold — snake-cold, laconic, icily penetrating.... Death against Hercules, from the Alcestis!
Dogged endurance, the cold patience of the snake, are admirable qualities — are usually irresistible. But there will at times arise in men a flame of passion, as coming from the godhead, that will overwhelm almost all things. He remembered in the Peninsular having watched two men fighting insanely. French cuirassiers had been driven back on a long front. There could have been no other French within a quarter of a mile — but a French corporal of cuirassiers as if insane had gone on in an unending attack on a trooper John Hance, with George Feilding and his squadron watching and cheering.... Naturally only for a minute or two!
The Frenchman on a rather light horse, reined in or let out, snorting, his sabre flashing — in a sunlit valley of the Sierras, John Hance revolving his cart-horse with hardly more than a pressure of the knee. Once he even used the back of his rein-hand to wipe his streaming brows, the Frenchman having recoiled to charge again....
Naturally they — he — had had to stop the combat: they could not afford to lose John Hance who was an incomparable preparer of Spanish farmyard roosters for cocking contests, and. unrivalled at the discovery of badgers, foxes and wolves for the officers’ recreations.... No, they could not afford to lose John Hance, but Feilding could not help still regretting that he had never let that combat come to an issue.
He had sent four immense troopers to get between the Frenchman and Johnny, telling them not to hurt the cuirassier if they could help it — and that French fellow had swerved his horse aside within a hair’s breadth of their stirrups and gone galloping over the valley bottom uttering singular yells of triumph and brandishing his sabre on high.... One of Ney’s own men, no doubt!
Somehow Ney had a marvellous gift of inspiring his men with a breath of the mad godhead that inhabited his own body.... An incredible fellow, that Prince of the Moskwa whom Napoleon himself had called, after Friedland, the Bravest of the Brave, whom all women called le beau sabreur, but Madame de Frèjus, the Most Noble of the Noble!... And the spit of her husband! His double!
Stories of him filled the world.... But the one that had most impressed George Feilding had told how once, at the end of a battle — a victory — after he had had three horses killed under him and had been lost to sight, exhausted and at the end of his physical tether, he had been found, flogging the barrel of a cannon with the flat of his sword and uttering hoarse cries of exhortation.... Imagine Wellington in that occupation!
Imagine him indeed in the present situation of Napoleon!
They — the Expedition and Napoleon — were at that moment in a position of the gravest, the most excruciating peril and excitement. They were off Antibes and a small fort called St. Eustache — half way between the two. Six miles to the eastward were a line of battleships and a sloop; they themselves were five miles from the coast. Supposing the leviathan should take notice of their small flotilla; supposing she should even signal them? Supposing the forts at Antibes and St. Eustache should be garrisoned by men for the moment loyal to Louis XVIII.... Nay, Napoleon with his omniscience knew that the town of Antibes was under the command of the Marquis de Bevers — some name like that — an unshakable Royalist.... The commander of the fort might be of the other persuasion. If not and the battleship detected them they must in these light and shifting airs, run ashore, under the guns of the fort or near it, and probably under fire from the line of battle ship that sailed at least six knots to their five.... A position, surely, of the gravest peril.
Yet there sat Napoleon on a red velvet couch; somnolent after his bottle of wine; his hands crossed over his stomach, for all the world like a traveller in the inn-parlour of a sleepy country town, awaiting the London mail! Chatting with an unknown subaltern!
Wellington would surely have shown more signs of vigilance, of care, of remorselessness, probably. Obviously, if you thought about it, on the occasion when he, Feilding, had watched him, Wellington’s position had been as much a case of tip and run as was Napoleon’s at that moment. He had in front of him a considerably greater force of French; his reserves were exhausted — that came out in the carefully calculated impatience of his: “Does he think that I can make troops!” his own left could hardly hold together and all that he had to tell him that the enemy’s left and centre were being forced back was some smoke arising amongst distant trees, beyond the valley.... That, perhaps, could only come from his guns advancing.... But, even at that, woodlands are not very propitious for artillery!
Well, Wellington had appeared vigilant, snake-like and cold. No doubt, were he in Napoleon’s now position, he would appear the same. It was a question of the complexion of commanders. No doubt when between and upon the decks Perducet announced to the anxious troops: “Hé compères, the Emperor is taking a refreshing nap!” — a suppressed cheer would run among their heads and communicate itself to the rest of the flotilla. They would say: “There is no danger. The Emperor allows himself to nap. He has all things prepared. Quel homme!”
That suited his troops who required to repose on the magnetism of a godhead. On the other hand for Wellington’s troops it was necessary that they should feel how he, watching over Israel, remained ceaselessly at attention. Napoleon, led by his star, had all things prepared for him; Wellington must be vigilant, to watch the turn of the moment. The one was a seer, the other incomparably competent!
And their rank and file were as different.
It had been singular and engrossing to the young man to come against, to be, as it were, buried, under French troops of all arms. He had been up against them on campaign — but there you had seen little of them except an occasional prisoner, sullen or vainglorious — or a bearskinned line of dark blue advancing, head deep in smoke — or in groups, once or twice, in amongst the scarlet and pipe-clay!
But remembering his own men at leisure, recumbent usually and except when there was badger-baiting or cocking or a round or two with the maulies — for they contrived those field sports wherever they went! — they came back to him as usually silent and unoccupied. But between and above these decks there was perpetual movement! Men played cards; they played dice; they recounted their exploits; they discussed politics with violent gestures of the wrists and hands; they carved their ration bones into boats, spoons or camels to send for remembrance to their children; they wrote letters to their mothers. Older men would get into the corners of gun-carriages and read begrimed newspapers, or go over proclamations they had copied out, correcting them. It was intensely interesting to hear them talk of their past battles or to mark the clearness of their views of public matters.
There again it was Wellington against the Emperor. You could no more imagine talking to a British trooper than you could imagine yourself finding entertainment from the conversation of the Duke. It was not a case of all work and no play.... The Duke took his hounds with him wherever they could be got until he finally left them at St. Jean de Luz....
Count Bertrand came down the companion. He reported to the Emperor that Fort Antibes appeared to be garrisoned. By means of a good glass you could perceive guns and men with bayonets lounging against them. For Fort Eustache he could not answer. The line of battleship did not as yet appear to have perceived them. She was holding on her course which might carry her to Sardinia.
“Then we must make for Frèjus,” the Emperor said. “We should make that place by nightfall or soon after.” Count Bertrand answered: “Not before the dawn, Sire. The wind falls every minute!”
Napoleon said: “Be it so. My star will doubtless influence wind and tide for my good. It we arrived at nightfall we could not land till dawn and it is as well that we should not have the appearance of hanging off the coast!”
He added: “Mon bon Bertrand!” indulgently, and the Count withdrew.
Napoleon looked across at the boy with a little malice:
