Admiral: Thomas Kydd 27

Book 53: Thomas Kydd

by Julian Stockwin

Genres: Sea Adventures; War & Military

Synopsis

1814
Ashore on leave, Captain Sir Thomas Kydd learns of a dismal harvest and general hardship among the population. In Germany, Napoleon Bonaparte is celebrating victories that once again make his name feared throughout Europe. An armistice is signed and while the Allies lick their wounds Bonaparte sets to preparing for a grand advance. And, in a fragile peace, and saddled with huge war debts, the government has no choice but to place HMS Thunderer, along with many other Royal Navy ships, in reserve, until the Navy can decide what to do with their great fleets.
Meanwhile, Kydd is offered an admiral's flag but this is the West Africa station and the anti-slavery operations set in fever-ridden swamps. Despite the obvious dangers and hardships, Kydd sees this as the realisation of his life's ambition and readies for sea in his beloved Thunderer as his flagship.

In a turn of the tide Bonaparte is defeated by the Allies and exiled to the tiny island of Elba. Then electrifying news breaks out - the tyrant has escaped and is marching on Paris, the citizens flocking to join him.

The British government as well is rocked by a realisation that Napoleon's invasion fleet is still in being and if the French navy declares for him they can sail from the ports now free of blockade and make the invasion of England a reality. The Channel Fleet has been stood down, its ships in various stages of repair, its commander on leave in the country. There's one man in active service who happens to be on the spot - Admiral Sir Thomas Kydd. With frantic haste he's appointed temporary commander-in-chief to sail with all the men-o'-war that can be scraped together to stand athwart the French. Kydd knows this will probably mean the sacrifice of not only his ships but himself and his men.

He calls on subterfuge and daring to flaunt defiance and resolution until the Battle of Waterloo settles the matter. Then, he has the satisfaction of seeing Napoleon Bonaparte carried off to St Helena, from whence he can never return.

Release date: October 10, 2024

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

*fictional character

*Sir Thomas Kydd, captain, HMS Thunderer; made admiral into Centaur

*Nicholas Renzi, Earl of Farndon, former confidential secretary to Kydd

Thunderer, ship’s company

*Ambrose

Second lieutenant

*Binard

Manservant to captain

*Clinch

Fourth lieutenant

*Clinton

Captain of Royal Marines

*Craddock

Kydd’s confidential secretary

*Doud

Quartermaster’s mate, friend of Stirk

*Gubb

Purser

*Halgren

Captain’s coxswain

*Joyce

Sailing master

*Lawlor

Gunner

*Martyn

Third lieutenant

*Opie

Boatswain

*Pinto

Petty officer, friend of Doud

*Roscoe

First lieutenant

*Stirk

Gunner’s mate, long-term acquaintance of Kydd

*Upcot

Carpenter

Centaur, ship’s company

*Bayley

Captain’s coxswain

*Cawley

First lieutenant

*Chace

Fourth lieutenant

*Clare

Sailing master

*Dicken

Admiral’s secretary

*Lovett

Flag lieutenant to Admiral Kydd

*Mathews

Second lieutenant

*Moore

Third lieutenant

*Sankey

Manservant to admiral

*Tippett

Flag captain, Centaur

Others

Adye

Captain, HMS Partridge

*Amillet

French colonel engineer under Moreau

*Appleby

Housekeeper to Kydds

*Bazely

Captain, Topaze; old friend of Kydd

Berthier

French grand marshal and chief of Imperial Staff

Brisbane

Captain, with Kydd in Curaçao

Cambronne

Military commander at Napoleon landing

Campbell

Colonel, British commissioner in Napoleon’s exile in Elba

Carnot

Major, in charge of fort on Aix

Castlereagh

Secretary of state for foreign affairs

Corbineau

French sergeant engineer under Moreau

Croker

First secretary to the Admiralty

Dalesme

General, French garrison on Elba

Decrès

Minister of marine, Paris

Duke of Clarence

William, future king and having a naval past

*Essington

Admiral, first promoted Kydd to quarterdeck

*Fookes (Prinker)

Parliamentary under-secretary and man-about-town

Fouché

French minister of police, secret service

*Francis

Kydd’s son

Franklyn

Envoy of Britain to court of Louis XVIII

*Garsen

Mrs, fortune teller

*Hoskins

Colour sergeant, old acquaintance of Kydd

*Jenkins

Proprietor, London Inn, Ivybridge

Keith

Admiral and commander-in-chief, Channel

Lord Liverpool

Prime minister

Louis XVIII

Brother of guillotined Louis XVI, restored to throne of France

Maitland

Captain, HMS Bellerophon

*Malone

Wealthy landowner

Marchand

Napoleon’s valet

Maria Walewska

Countess, Napoleon’s mistress

Melville

First lord of the Admiralty

Metternich

Austrian chancellor

*Moreau

Adjutant commandant of Napoleon’s engineers and confidant

Murat

King of Naples, brother-in-law to Napoleon

Ney

French marshal and army commander

Oudinot

French marshal

Palmerston

Secretary of state for war

Pauline

La Principessa Paolina Borghese, Napoleon’s vivacious sister

Philibert

Captain, frigate Saale

*Picheur

Admiral and French commander Brest region

Schwarzenberg

Austrian supreme army commander

Sidney Smith

Admiral, often contentious in his actions

*Simon

Drummer boy, of Kydd’s earlier acquaintance

*Soper

Clerk of court, Exeter Assizes

Soult

Marshal of French Empire

Taillade

Captain, brig-sloop Inconstant, only vessel in Elban Navy

Vandamme

French general

Vansittart

Chancellor of exchequer

Wilberforce

Fiery anti-slavery campaigner



1814, HMS Thunderer, the English Channel

‘Our pennants, manoeuvre well executed.’ The signal lieutenant of HMS Thunderer tried to conceal his pride, as he relayed this to his captain, standing legs a-brace on the quarterdeck of the venerable ship-of-the-line.

Very good. Do acquaint Lieutenant Ambrose of my approbation of his conduct,’ acknowledged Sir Thomas Kydd.

It had been intelligent and timely work at the staysail by his second lieutenant’s fo’c’sle division taking up on the new tack. In the fluky calms the rest of the squadron had missed stays.

Admiral Cotton had been insistent that his command should exercise regularly, which Kydd put down to a need to reduce boredom as much as operational necessity. His own seamanship after long service in a fighting frigate was unmatched, in no small part due to his origins as a sailor before the mast.

One by one the other ships took the wind. Kydd had sympathy for the captain of the ponderous flagship Culloden trying to keep with the sleeker third-rates. Still, it was a measure of the man that the admiral had publicly acknowledged Thunderer’s achievement.

The breeze gave a playful lift and the seas chuckled under the 74’s forefoot as the line took up on the fresh tack – and a new signal leaped up Culloden’s mizzen halliards.

‘Our pennants, sir, and “Proceed in execution of previous orders.”’

It was a welcome hoist, requiring Thunderer to make for port to spend a week refitting after the gales and general unpleasantness in the Channel during the autumn. And shore leave was to be granted for the seamen after their long blockade duty.

Kydd wasn’t going to let them off so easily, however, and once out of sight of the squadron the decks thrilled to the heavy rumble of gun trucks. One side of the three-ton thirty-two-pounders competed against the other in the hard exercise of drill, the mock serving of the monster creatures and running them out before hauling in for a ‘reload’.

There was a chance for the losers to regain the honours: Kydd had carefully hoarded his allowance of powder and shot in order to put in some live firing, always appreciated by the crew, who enjoyed the smoke and concussion after the tedium of long days of peace and order. The target was an old painting scow fitted with an inverted V mast between which a worn red blanket made a serviceable sail and firing mark. It was streamed astern, bobbing jauntily while Thunderer wheeled around at a half-mile’s range.

Kydd wanted to see the action on the gun-deck. He knew that his presence would indicate serious interest in the proceedings and he clattered down the ladders to the gloom of the gun spaces.

Martyn, the lieutenant of the lower gun-deck, stiffened. He was as much under eye as the gun crews. ‘Honoured to have you with us, sir,’ he said carefully. ‘Times from you?’

‘No. Do know, sir, I’m not here and you’ll have your timings from the quarterdeck.’ His first lieutenant, Roscoe, would be up there, conning the ship as if in a battle to ‘rake’ and ‘harry’ the hapless punt. Kydd would watch from the sidelines.

As the preparatory orders rapped out he quietly surveyed the row of guns. With the fleet-wide hunger for men there were not enough to man both sides fully so to keep an element of competition every second gun was manned. It gave them more room to perform the deadly ballet that was play at the guns and, at the same time, scope for speed, which would stay with them when fighting a single but full side of guns.

The din of bellowing gun captains, growling quarter-gunners and peremptory officers’ calls died away. The crews were tense and ready.

Then Kydd noticed a thick-set, broad-shouldered figure standing still and watchful in the centre of the deck under the gratings: gunner’s mate Stirk, a warrior of legend and one to whom Kydd owed so much of his formative early years as a young seaman.

He’d personally trained the gun-captains and his critical eye would judge them far more harshly than Kydd. Nervous glances at the figure were more numerous than those towards their noble captain.

‘For exercise – larboard, five rounds.’ The relayed command was piped at the hatchway and Martyn rapped the order that had the gun crews snap to alert. As a drill only there would be no firing but the side of the violently heaving three-ton iron beasts was no place for the faint of heart.

Five cycles of ‘loading’, ‘running out’ and ‘firing’ were exercised as Stirk stood impassive. This drill was commonplace, at most evening quarters conducted as routine. A flick of his finger indicated that the starbowlines were winners. They could now laze and watch the larbowlines sweat in a round to see if they could claw back a victory.

Then there was a lull, which Kydd knew was Roscoe bringing Thunderer around to bear on the target, seeming a far smaller mark through the gun-port than from the open deck. It gave time for the crews to gird for action – gun pouches of spare flints, quill tubes for taking the spark from the gun-lock to the main charge, slow-match gently glowing in the match tub and training tackle ranged free.

‘Open fire t’ starboard in five minutes!’ squeaked a midshipman messenger at the hatchway. Ready loaded, the massive pieces were run out in a deep martial rumbling, their muzzles questing over the restless seas.

Kydd squatted, squinting through a gun-port at the far-off red blob. This would not be broadsides, which were used only at close quarters to terrify an enemy at the height of an action. Instead, each gun would fire alone so that fall of shot and therefore accuracy could be made out.

Stirk moved behind and in line with the muzzle of the first gun. He kept clear to allow the gun-captain room but had the same sight picture.

There was work with the crow to lay the gun more precisely – Roscoe knew to keep the ship unwaveringly on course – and more at the quoin until the gun-captain, back curved over the gun to see down its length, was satisfied.

The man paused a heartbeat to have the lazy heave of the ship lower the muzzle on target. Then his hand on the lanyard to the gun-lock whipped back. With an ear-splitting bellow and instant smother of gun-smoke the black monster slammed back, its shot taking seconds to reach out and send up a leisurely white plume fifty yards short but well in line.

Stirk padded over behind the gun-captain. Words were passed and the man nodded vigorously. The gunner’s mate resumed his position, and even from this distance Kydd could make out the dark glitter of Stirk’s eyes – he was satisfied with the performance.

It wasn’t that the gun had missed. It hadn’t. A real opponent would loom many times larger and the present shot would most certainly have taken it well in the centre of its bulk. It was more that the first ball from this gun had been so effective from the start. If the rest of the gun-deck was like that then any sudden close action would be lethal to the enemy.

No more than two rounds per gun were permissible in the miserly allowance but they made the most of it. With the setting sun came the crash and roar of guns. Then it was rest, the welcome benison of grog and the evening meal.



At the other end of the ship the wardroom had invited Kydd to their dinner. Together they toasted the taut man-o’-war in which they found themselves and happily joined in the old catches and glees so revered over the years.

‘I’m here or there a jolly dog,

At land or sea I’m all agog,

To fight, or kiss, or touch the grog;

For I’m a jovial midshipman,

A smart young midshipman,

A veeeery little mid-ship-man . . .’

Sung by Ambrose, the mature second lieutenant, it brought roars of laughter.

The more nostalgic third lieutenant, Martyn, offered:

‘Aboard of my true love’s ship I’ll go

And brave each blowing gale;

I’ll splice, I’ll tack, I’ll reef, I’ll row

And haul with him the sail:

In jacket blue, and trousers too

With him I’ll cruise afar,

There shall not be a smarter tar

Aboard a man-o’-war . . .’

Kydd sighed and relaxed with his brandy, regarding his officers with affection. Such warm, enjoyable evenings were what it was to be an officer at sea in these long wars. The French were not abroad and it was becoming increasingly unlikely that they would be caught up in a grand fleet action in the near future, but if they were, Thunderer was ready.

His eye caught Craddock’s. His confidential secretary never drank more than guarded sips but was an agreeable messmate.

‘Dear fellow,’ he called, above the happy din, ‘do tip us something of the evening.’

Craddock raised a glass in acknowledgement. The man had witnessed hideous scenes in the Adriatic but service in Thunderer had brought him through to the other side.

‘I’d rather I had the sea cant to add to your merriment – but I don’t. Should Mr Shakespeare serve, I should be glad to oblige.’

‘Do carry on, old trout.’

Craddock stood, and imperiously declaimed:

‘In cradle of the rude imperious surge

And in the visitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them

With deafening clamour in the slippery clouds,

That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?

Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose

To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude?’

To his evident surprise it was rapturously received, if somewhat glassy-eyed by some.

‘Henry the Fourth, Part Two,’ he added apologetically. ‘The third act or so, as I remember.’

The moment was saved by Kydd, who expressed a pressing desire to unburden himself of a somewhat saltier ditty – and the evening progressed to the early hours.



Approaches to Plymouth Harbour, Devon

‘Great Mew in sight, nor’-east, seven miles, sir.’

In hours Kydd would be back in the inexpressibly dear surroundings of Knowle Manor and would know the love of Persephone, his wife. He levered himself out of his cot, letting Binard, his valet, set up for his morning shave. A daybreak sighting was good navigation by the quarterdeck and there, further inland beyond the triangular rearing of the island, was all he held dear. And he would be in time for the evening repast.

A little later the big man-o’-war’s anchor plunged into the mud of Cawsand Bay and, for all intents and purposes, Thunderer had made her way home. Dutifully, Kydd took boat for Mount Wise to make his number with Garland, the port admiral.

‘Weren’t expecting you, Kydd. Weary of North Sea pastures?’ The man looked tired and more than a little hunted, and Kydd wondered what impossible task had been laid on him.

‘As it may be, sir, Admiral Cotton did send me here for the fettling.’ It had been thoughtful of his commander to specify Plymouth instead of the nearer Portsmouth dockyard, making casual excuse of a current build-up of work there.

‘I’ll get it under way with the master attendant, then. You’ll need victualling – powder, shot?’

‘It’s been quiet in our parts, sir. No need, really.’

The admiral looked up gravely. ‘You’ll have heard that Boney has got himself an army of size again, of course. How he does it, God knows, but what we can be sure of is that he’ll be on the march again presently and we’ll all be pitched into a new wrangle.’

‘And we’ll serve him in the same way,’ Kydd said stoutly.

Garland gave a thin smile. ‘If you saw things from where I’m sitting you might have your apprehensions, I believe. Know that three parts of four of our fleet is all the seven seas over preserving our empire and I’m to find the means to keep ’em there.’ He slumped. ‘And muster hulls enough to face up to Boney here if he gets uppity.’

‘A long war, sir.’

‘A devil of a long war – but pay no mind to me, Kydd. You make the most of your liberty ashore. I heard you now have a youngling in tow?’



Knowle Manor, Devon

The evening sun gilded the leaves of the trees, achingly poignant before the autumnal winds turned them bare. Kydd was at the heights of happiness, however, for he and Persephone had young Francis toddling round and round the lawn as dinner was being prepared.

‘It’s all so ironic,’ Kydd reflected.

‘What is, dearest?’

‘That here I am, as contented with life as any man alive – with my true love in mine own estate and a modest sum to keep us in our aged years.’

‘So you deserve it, my dear.’

He stopped and looked at her fondly. ‘Have you ever considered that, wicked as it is, if it were not for this endless war I would still be . . . of the common folk? No hob-a-nob with the King, prize money, the respect of the people, a thousand men to do my bidding. I owe it all, Seph, to a bloody war.’

‘You’d succeed whatever you chose in life, Thomas. Your country needs you at this time, you’ve answered, and that’s all there is to it.’ She glanced fondly at their son. He was visibly tiring and they retired inside.

The next day Kydd decided to ride with Persephone to the snug Ivybridge alehouse, the London Inn, to meet his neighbours and tenants in that pleasant setting. The ostler came out to take their horses and they entered the dark, brassy interior to scattered greetings, but there was a distinct pall in the air.

‘They’ve had a dismal harvest this year, the second in a row,’ Persephone whispered, as they took up their favoured high-backed bench near the fire.

Kydd felt for them. Early to rise, toil and care every day of their lives – and in the last act a failure for all their efforts.

‘Not so dimber, the yields this year, Daniel,’ Kydd called to a shrunken man in a worn smock, nursing his beer. ‘Shall you join me in a pot?’

He was rewarded with a mumbled account of storm-beaten wheat fields and a stubborn murrain in the cows before others came to add their tales of grief. One or two tried to say something about Kydd’s war but the gulf between this ageless rustic existence and the majestic heave and menace of the ocean was too great.

The gloom was almost palpable and, in Kydd’s heightened mood of delight at his return home, it was dispiriting. He caught Persephone’s eye, and they took their leave.

They picked their way homeward in silence, the clopping of the horses’ hoofs loud in the afternoon stillness. After a space Persephone said lightly, ‘Thomas, my dear, should you oblige me in a small matter, I’d be so grateful.’

Her horse whickered as if adding its encouragement.

‘Why, of course, my darling. What’s it to be? The orangery or London for the Season?’

‘Not so arduous at all, my love.’

‘Well?’

‘My dear, have you ever wondered what life holds in store for you?’ she said softly, avoiding his eyes.

‘Often!’ Kydd laughed. ‘A mariner in anything of a blow has his views, you must believe.’

‘I meant more . . . our future, my dearest.’ The tone had become more troubled and Kydd felt a wash of misgiving.

‘Is there . . . Have you anything as vexes you, Seph?’ he asked.

‘Thomas, there’s a lady in the village I’d like you to meet.’

‘Er, if you wish it.’

‘She’s of a certain reputation.’ At Kydd’s puzzled look she went on carefully, ‘Well known as being out of the ordinary . . . fey, as you might say.’

‘As claims to see into the future?’ At sea he’d encountered lower-deck trouble-makers, who’d unsettled the crew as they darkly foresaw certain shipmates being swept overboard or suffering some other dire fate. Or disclosing who would not survive a bloody conclusion in an action against the enemy.

Persephone went on, ‘She knew that Eliza Mortimer would not see her eighteenth birthday and forecast that George Broadley would lose his farm before the end of the year. Not only that but—’

‘No.’

‘Thomas. Mrs Garsen is a respectable widow who has the gift of prescience. It wouldn’t do you harm to hear what she has to say, now would it?’

‘I don’t believe in such catblash, Seph.’

‘You did say you’d oblige me in this small thing,’ she said, lifting her chin.

It would not be an easy matter for Kydd to dismiss.



The little cottage was set back from others, and as soon as they set foot inside, Kydd was oppressed by its gloom and the faded furnishings of another age. Mrs Garsen was a short but pert individual of some years but with uncomfortably sharp eyes.

They were shown into a small front drawing room with a diminutive bay window.

‘And what can I do for you, my dears?’

‘Ah. I met Mrs Bampton in the market the other day,’ Persephone said, ‘and she recommended your services in the matter of advice in respect of . . . of the future.’

Both women ignored Kydd’s snort.

‘I see. Well, please to sit. I won’t be a moment.’ She returned with a single candle in an elaborate Oriental holder, which she placed carefully on the table between them. It was scented with a vaguely eastern aroma that reminded Kydd of the harem of Pasha Djezzar, the Butcher, in Acre.

Moving shadows were cast all about the dimness of the room.

‘May I know to whom I’m speaking?’

That it was Captain Sir Thomas Kydd and his lady did not disconcert her and she sat primly, hands in her lap. ‘This is upon a question concerning a decision of sorts, perhaps.’

Persephone glanced at Kydd, then replied steadily, ‘Not as who should say, Mrs Garsen. I’m rather more interested in my husband’s prospects.’

Kydd was startled. She wanted to know his prospects? She knew well enough their holdings in Consols at three per cent and—

‘I see. Then I find it will be necessary to know more of the gentleman. Do present your right hand, Sir Thomas.’

‘This is ridiculous, Seph. How can she—’

‘Sir Thomas. You know nothing of my profession yet object to its practice. It is, may I point out, the result of many years’ study and experience and owes nothing either to witchcraft or the diabolical. Kindly oblige me.’

‘Do as she asks of you, Thomas, I beg,’ Persephone muttered.

Reluctantly, he obeyed. The seer cradled his hand and peered closely by the light of the candle, then looked up sharply. ‘A very interesting study – most interesting. This is not the hand of the common sort, yet neither that of the gentle-born.’

She studied it further and leaned back. ‘I see . . . much pain. A rope – no, many, together. I do not know what this can mean,’ she ended wonderingly.

Kydd felt the creeping unease of the unknown invade his soul. How could she know that the knight of the realm before her had once been flogged with the cat-o’-nine-tails on the deck of a man-o’-war?

‘Never mind that, Mrs Garsen. What does the future hold for him? Will he . . . will he live to see his grandchildren, for instance?’ Persephone cut in, her voice both brittle and troubled.

Then Kydd understood. She was trying to find out if he would survive Bonaparte’s murderous war.

The woman darted an appraising look at Kydd and said flatly, ‘In these times, my lady, the threads of existence are not easy to trace. The stress and vexations of war do distort the decrees of Fate that are laid down for an individual and are hard to realise by mere mortals.’

She paused and then said in a businesslike tone, ‘I believe we must look to the cards. I favour the piquet variety in this delicate matter. Have you any objection? No? Then I will ask when it was Sir Thomas received his existence.’

‘When I . . .?’

‘He was born in 1773, the month early January.’

‘Capricorn – thank you.’ She began slowly and carefully shuffling the cards, laying them down one by one in front of her, peering intently at them as she did so. ‘Yes. As I feared. A sad moil of strife and striving.’ She looked up directly at Kydd, and in the single candlelight her expression was chillingly bleak.

‘Your profession is one of hazard, I see. There have been occasions when your continuance on this earthly plane has been despaired of and I must advise that I find these will not cease in any wise.’

‘Can you not . . .?’ He heard a catch in Persephone’s voice but in the face of such could think of nothing to say.

‘I will try.’

To his alarm she sank back with a moan, her eyes rolling up out of sight.

‘The line of time I can see is not long . . . not long, and my vision is obscured – so much din and furore on either hand and it is difficult to distinguish, to understand . . . Ah, I see now a road, which we comprehend as the highway of life.’ She mumbled something. Then, collecting herself, said more loudly, ‘I must tell you, it does not extend for so far –’

Persephone gave a small cry, her hands to her lips.

‘– for all is veiled in an evil fog that swirls to and fro in a vexing manner.’ She swayed, her look of concentration fierce as she strove to see more clearly. ‘It is causing me distress to penetrate further but for your sake I shall try to do so.’

In the absolute stillness she contorted and writhed, then gasped, ‘The fog lifts just for a moment – and there ahead I perceive that the highway does not end. I see it forks. There are two roads now that go in their two directions. This then is a point in your existing where a deciding must be made in a great matter, in which you must not fail.’

‘What is it? Do tell, please.’ Persephone was now openly wringing her hands.

‘I – I cannot go on, the pains, the agitation it is causing me,’ she said faintly, her features suddenly old. ‘I must cease and withdraw before . . . before . . .’

The session was at an end.



Outskirts of Bautzen, Germany

A movement caught Adjutant Commandant Moreau’s eye. A slight dip in the landscape, shadowed in the failing light, was strewn with bodies after a particularly vicious clash at arms. The stink of squalid deaths and reek of gun-smoke hung in the chill of dusk, redolent of the piteous desolation and waste of life that was war.

His horse picked its way nervously through the corpses as he returned to Napoleon Bonaparte’s campaign headquarters. He had made a foray into the forward lines to verify the condition of the bridge over the Hauptspree, which had so lately been in enemy hands.

Movement again. This time he caught sight of several ragged individuals who were robbing the corpses and his mind erupted into a blazing rage. He wrenched the horse’s head around and urged it over, hurling abuse at the scattering figures but one crouched low, yanking at a dead officer’s waistcoat. Moreau tore out his heavy service pistol and blindly loosed off a shot. The pilferer dropped on to his victim, writhing spasmodically. The colonel of engineers who was with Moreau said nothing, falling in behind as they rode on.

Lanterns were flickering into light in the distance towards Bautzen but nowhere was as bright as the complex of tents and carriages that was Napoleon Bonaparte’s Grand Quartier Général Impérial. The emperor would probably be at his desk in the larger tent at the centre and it would not take Moreau long to make his report.

But the tent was alive with noise and laughter, filled with the glitter and splendour of officers of every high rank. Champagne in hand, they were loudly extolling their part in the recent victories that had made Bonaparte’s name feared again in the land.

It had been a remarkable recovery. From the months since the calamitous retreat from Moscow, swift and heroic measures had been taken that now saw the army at so. . .