Читать книгу An Improper Arrangement - Кейси Майклс, Kasey Michaels - Страница 8

Battle of Champaubert 10 February 1814

GABRIEL SINCLAIR HAD talked his friends into many a wild start or dubious enterprise over the years, but the objectives always had been entertainment, adventure and, often, since they’d grown into manhood, willing women.

Which didn’t explain why they’d followed him this time, as the only things certain were they’d be cold, bored and forced to miss their noon meal, not that the last could be considered much of a sacrifice.

There wouldn’t be any more large battles, everyone said so, especially after the Allied Army’s thorough trouncing of Napoleon’s troops at La Rothière. Any day now, Boney would present an offer of abdication, hand back his crown and they could all go home.

“Tell me again why we’re up here, Gabe, risking frostbite to our most treasured appendages,” his friend Cooper Townsend said, wrapping his greatcoat more tightly around himself. “Our Russian friend camped us in the wrong spot?”

“I think we’ve already agreed on that. They’re all acting as if the war’s already over,” Gabriel muttered as he studied the crude map he’d drawn a day earlier, while out reconnoitering on his own. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust England’s ally; he merely trusted himself more. He was also partial to giving orders, not taking them, and hadn’t been best pleased to be ordered to join with the Russians. “Look at this, Rigby,” he demanded, shoving the map under Jeremiah Rigby’s nose. “Five thousand men, all but deserted by Blücher and stretched thin like pulled taffy. Our affable host, the dear General Olssufiev, has yet to set out half the needed sentries, and the few he did do nothing but hide in the bushes and snore their heads off.”

“Not the ones we kicked awake when we first got up here,” Cooper said, grinning. “Only real enjoyment I’ve had in days.”

Gabriel ignored him and continued making his point. “One sharp bite on the taffy and the French are through our lines, and with nothing at our backs but a half-frozen river.”

“Yes, yes, very pretty. You’re quite the artist with words, Gabe. Not that I can decipher the thing.” Jeremiah Rigby pushed the offending map away. “Worse, now I’m hungry for taffy.” He winked at Cooper. “Wouldn’t mind a rabbit, either, come to think of it. Since we’ve seen no French, what say you we scrap this ridiculous patrol you bludgeoned us all into, Gabe, and turn it into a hunting party?”

“Not yet, boys. Our doomsday prophet might yet be right. Shame, if true, but odd things happen all the time.”

They all turned to Darby Travers, who, for lack of anything else to do, had been lazily scanning the horizon with a spyglass.

“Give me that—it’s mine. See? It’s got my name inscribed right there, below my grandfather’s. It was a gift to him when he represented England in the court of Russia’s own Empress Elizabeth. We lived there for several years, and that’s how Papa managed to—Well, I didn’t give you permission to touch it.”

“Christ, Neville, you’re worse than a nursery brat fighting over his toys,” Gabriel said as the last of their small reconnaissance party grabbed the spyglass and stood straight up before being pulled back down by his breeches. “Idiot beanpole—why not wave a flag while you’re at it? What did you see, Darby?”

“Sunlight reflecting off metal, just as somebody else would see it bouncing off that spyglass. At least I think I did. Just inside those trees on the other side of the field. I’d call it three hundred yards. I saw flashes not once but twice, in two different areas.”

“It’s probably one of our patrols,” Neville said, sticking the glass to his eye, then fighting to focus in on the tree line. “Where? I don’t see anything.”

“Surprised he’s looking into the correct end,” Darby said, rubbing his cold hands together.

“Oh, now that’s harsh, Darby. Shame on you.” Rigby turned to Gabriel, whispering none too quietly, “Remind me again why you thought we needed to drag this fuzzy-cheeked halfling along with us?”

“It wasn’t simply because he asked so prettily—I’ll tell you that. I thought he might come in handy. An idea, when looked at in hindsight, that wasn’t particularly brilliant. But he speaks Russian, remember? Only one of us who does, if we need to get a message to Olssufiev in a hurry. Otherwise, if you also recall, we were going to tie him to his tentpole so he wouldn’t wander.”

Young Neville pushed his unruly black hair out of his eyes while looking momentarily nonplussed, but then seemed to come to a decision. “You want me to go tell the general, don’t you? But what do I tell him? So far, all we’ve seen is some reflections. We can’t know if it’s one of our own patrols or Boney’s whole army massing in those trees for an attack.”

“Remarkably, I believe I agree with the infant. He must have once read a book or something. Myles, there may be hope for you yet.” Gabriel spat on the ground beside him.

“Really? Um, yes…I’ll be off, then, to, um, to…?”

“To put the general’s staff on alert, collect Sergeant Major Ames, tell him to muster two dozen of our best, ready to spread out along the hilltop in roving patrols, and then lead them back to us here at double time to hear further orders,” Gabriel said wearily. “Start with Ames, and then the general. The sergeant major will have the lads ready when you come back for them. Do you have that, Myles, or do we need you to write it down?”

“Of course I’ve got it. I’m extremely intelligent. That’s why my father was able to place me as adjutant to the general’s staff, where I’d be safe and—never mind. Good English troops, that’s what we need watching out for those damned Frogs. You’ll have them in less than twenty minutes, on my word as a gentleman.”

“He won’t be able to lay claim to gentleman until that damn valet his papa shipped over here with him sees a need to shave him more than twice a month. But he does show rather good speed when traveling downhill and possibly away from the enemy, with those long legs and all,” Cooper observed, watching Myles Neville take to his heels, their only spyglass tucked into his belt.

Gabriel also watched the beanpole, those rail-thin long legs oddly out of synch, although he managed to remain upright. “Fathers and their ambitions. He’s the only reason our contingent of troops is here instead of remaining with the main army, to help babysit the infant. God, I loathe that man. Maybe we shouldn’t have let Myles go off on his own. Clearly it wasn’t his idea to leave England in the first place. If he comes home to his influential papa with so much as a sprained ankle, we’ll probably all face charges.”

“Maybe the tentpole was a better idea. How long do we wait on him, Gabe?”

“Not long. Just until he comes back with our men. Look at it this way, boys. Even if it turns out to be one of our own patrols Darby saw, at least we’re rid of Myles for now.”

Cooper grinned. “Always a pony in there somewhere, they say.”

With nothing else to do, and with even Darby beginning to doubt what he’d seen, they hunkered down to watch the line of trees.

Gabe knew his friends had followed him up here because he seemed to always take charge, ever since they were at school. Was that a good thing? They all held the same rank now, had commanded their own men until assigned to be with him in this combination of English and Russian troops. What if he was wrong? What if they’d all land in the briars for striking out on their own…which pretty well implied that their faith in the Russian general’s military genius was limited? They weren’t half-drunk friends out on a spree, using their military capes to dazzle a bull as if they were matadors; they were seasoned soldiers talking about a possible attack by a desperate enemy.

“What if I’m right?” he asked quietly.

“Right about what?” Cooper asked, yawning.

“Right about Bonaparte’s desperate need for a victory. What if he really is out there?”

“Ah, I understand, Coop,” Darby said cheerfully enough. “Our good friend is doubting himself. I suppose there’s a first time for everything in this world. Don’t fret like an old woman, Gabe. We’re all in agreement here. Besides, what else is there to do in this godforsaken place?”

“Thanks, Darby, for that faint praise. But we still wouldn’t have much of a head start if he’s really out there, hiding in the forest.”

Cooper patted Gabe on the back. “Those trees on the other side of the field are a long way away. Remember your Shakespeare. ‘I will not be afraid of death and bane till Birnam Forest comes to Dunsinane.’”

Gabe chuckled softly. “Yes, and look what good that sort of bravado did Macbeth.”

Finally, Rigby lifted his head, probably to help prick up his sadly prominent ears. “Don’t talk Shakespeare, for God’s sake. If Darby hadn’t taken my exam for me, I’d still be buried in plays and sonnets, and missing all the fun. Not that we’re all having a jolly good time at the moment.”

Cooper stretched out his legs on the cold ground, as if settling in for the duration. “And there you have it, Gabe. Let’s just go back to blaming the dastardly Earl of Broxley, who remains, after all, the reason we’re here halfheartedly playing at nursemaids to his heir in the first place.”

Everyone was quiet until Rigby fell to his back, holding up his leg and fiercely rubbing his calf. “Cramp, damn it all. I’m telling you, Gabe, this isn’t exactly the best time you’ve ever shown us.” He pulled himself up and peered toward the tree line once more. “Haven’t seen a thing, not even a rabbit for our pot. What’s the time, Darby old man?”

“Nearly ten. We’ve been cooling our heels for more than twenty minutes.”

Gabriel had been eyeing the sweep of landscape to his left, his right, mentally positioning the soldiers Neville would bring with him. Every hundred yards should do it, and there was ample cover. “He should have been back by now, or at least alerted the general and sent Ames along to relieve us.”

Rigby snorted with laughter. “Probably stopped to change his drawers, the thought of a battle scaring the piss out of him.”

“Listen. Have you noticed—Rigby’s appreciation of his own wit notwithstanding—how quiet it is? No birds, no small animals scuttling through the undergrowth. We’re not the only ones holding our breath, waiting to see what’s going to happen next.”

“That damn eerie quiet before all hell unleashes on us,” Cooper said, raising his head as if to sniff the air. “Time to go?”

“Time to go,” Gabriel agreed.

“Didn’t somebody already suggest that?” Rigby grumbled. “I know I was thinking about—”

Anything Rigby may have added was blotted out by the short blast from a bugle as a double line of battle-seasoned French cavalry burst from the trees in a near-instant gallop, followed hard by a seemingly endless number of infantry marching double time, their bayonets already fixed. Hundreds of birds that had been nesting in the treetops took to the sky, almost as if they were part of the charge.

What commander sends cavalry first? A desperate man? Or an insanely clever tactician, one unafraid to adjust his attack order to the situation. It had to be Bonaparte himself coming at them. Gabriel cursed himself for not considering every last alternative. He’d put his friends in danger well above what they’d have had if they’d stayed with their troops.

“Do you know how much I hate it when you’re right!” Darby yelled at Gabriel. They threw off their cumbersome greatcoats and shouldered their packs as they headed down the hill toward the thin line of trees standing between them and the snakelike line of tents along the river, the camp that now seemed so far away.

There were no English soldiers marching toward them to give them cover until they could reach their own lines. No Sergeant Major Ames, no Russian troops falling into formation in front of their tents, weapons at the ready. And no Myles Neville to be seen anywhere. Only the smoke from thousands of small cooking fires rose up to meet them, that and the smell of borscht.

Behind them and closing rapidly came the sound of thundering hooves and shouting Frenchmen.

Would an earlier warning have altered the outcome that day? Probably not. Napoleon knew he badly needed a victory to rally the French people, and although not all his infantry might be well trained or even well armed, they did outnumber the Allied troops nearly four to one.

In less than an hour, the easy triumph of La Rothière became the embarrassing debacle at Champaubert, with morale swinging back in Napoleon’s favor, giving him the will to fight on. After all, he’d lost only two hundred of his men, while the Allies’ casualties numbered over four thousand, with many more taken prisoner, including Olssufiev.

By some miracle, Gabriel and his friends survived the rout, but not without consequences. Cooper Townsend had taken a ball in his side, and Jeremiah Rigby was occupied guiding Darby Travers along the rough track that ran beside the roadway; the man’s eyes were covered with bandages.

“Move aside! Move aside!”

The command, issued in guttural French, warned the seemingly endless line of prisoners to stumble into the slush and mud at either side of the roadway as yet another equipage rolled by.

Gabriel looked up in time to see the Russian general and several of his senior staff being driven past the long line of marching prisoners in a horse-drawn wagon. Rank had its privileges, even in defeat.

“Where’s Broxley’s brat?” he shouted, knowing the man couldn’t understand a word of English but not really caring at the moment. He chased after the wagon, hauling Cooper along with him.

“I can’t go on, Gabe,” Cooper gasped out as exhaustion stopped their pursuit. “Did you see him? I didn’t see him.”

“I saw him. Perched right up next to Olssufiev. Somebody stuck him in a Russian officer’s uniform.”

“So now he’s under the general’s protection. Politics, that’s all it is, Gabe. Money and politics. Let it go.”

But Gabriel was incensed, nearly out of his mind with rage and with no clear direction to focus it. Coop could be dying. Darby had probably lost vision in at least one of his eyes. Many of their men were still sprawled on the muddy ground, left there for their bodies to rot as the French stripped them of boots and weapons, food and ammunition, before abandoning the battlefield.

“When you see your papa,” he shouted as the wagon kept moving, “tell him I damn his eyes for what happened here today—and damn you for a bloody coward!”

He didn’t feel the butt of the French rifle slam into the side of his head, although when he woke, lying half in an icy puddle, it was with a headache that would come back to plague him for nearly a year.

Not quite two months after what would be his last real victory, Napoleon was finally forced to abdicate, and at last everyone could go home. Indeed, Gabriel Sinclair and his friends Jeremiah Rigby and Cooper Townsend were relaxing at White’s, sipping wine and shelling walnuts when the last of their quartet, Darby Travers, arrived to join them. He tossed a folded newspaper onto the table before dropping into a chair, his face dark with disgust.

“Read that, my friends. Myles Neville has just been honored by the Russians for indispensable services to General Olssufiev, Mother Russia and all God’s fair creatures, I imagine. It says there that they gave him a party and a bloody medal in Paris. Can you believe it? Not content to get his son back alive, that damned Earl of Broxley has somehow managed to turn piss-pants into a hero.”