‘I never saw a man so unaffected in my life!’ said Mr Creevey. ‘He is as cheerful as a schoolboy, and talks as though there were no possibility of war!’
‘Then he is damned different with you from what he is with me,’ said Sir Charles Stuart bluntly.
‘I have got an infamous Army, very weak, and ill-equipped, and a very inexperienced staff,’ wrote the Duke, in the midst of his balls, and his reviews, his visits to Ghent, and his latest charming flirtation.
‘Pooh! Nonsense,’ said the Duke, but wrote to Hill at Grammont: ‘Matters look a little serious on the frontier.’
The Duke knew as well as any man what was stirring beyond the frontier, for he had got Colonel Grant out in charge of the Intelligence, and no one knew better than Grant how to obtain desired information. More reliable than the data collected by Clarke and his French spies were Grant’s brief reports sent in to General Dörnberg at Mons, and forwarded on by him to Brussels. Grant told of bridges and roads being broken up in the Sambre district, as though for defence; of Count d’Erlon’s Corps lying between Valenciennes and Maubeuge in four divisions of infantry; of Reille at Avesnes, with five infantry divisions and three cavalry; of Vandamme between Mézières and Rocroi; and of Count Lobau, at Laon. His information was precise and always to be trusted: no flights into the realms of conjecture for Colonel Grant, a dry Scot, dealing only in facts and figures. Oh yes! matters certainly looked serious on the frontier; and his lordship had received, besides, disquieting intelligence of a huge body of cavalry forming. Sixteen thousand heavy cavalry were in readiness to take the field, and all over France horses were being bought, to bring the total up to forty thousand or more. A report was spread of Murat’s having fled by sea from Italy; it was supposed that he would be put in command of this mass of cavalry, for who so brilliant as Murat in cavalry manœuvres? More serious still was the news that Soult had accepted the office of Major-General under the Emperor. That would bring many wavering men over to Napol
eon, for Soult’s was a name that carried weight.
The Duke of Brunswick arrived, with his Black Brunswickers: men in sable uniforms, with a skull and crossbones on their shakos, and the death of the Duke’s father at Jéna to avenge. A handsome man, the Duke, gallant in the field and stately in the ballroom, with gentle manners and a grave, sweet smile. His men were quartered at Vilvorde, north of Brussels, but he himself was continually at Headquarters, troubled over the eternal question of subsidies.
The Nassauers were on the way, led by General Kruse, and a hopeful young Prince, whom his lordship had promised to take into his family. Rather an anxiety, these hereditary princelings, but they were all of them agog to fight under his lordship, flatteringly deferential and eager to be of use.
Blücher moved his Headquarters from Liége to Hannut, drawing closer to the Anglo-Allied Army; De Lancey arrived from England with his young bride, taking Sir Hudson Lowe’s place. With a deputy-quartermaster-general he knew, and could trust to do his work without for ever wishing to copy Prussian methods, his lordship found his path smoother. He still had General Röder with him, but meant to drop a word in Blücher’s ear when he next saw him. The fellow would have to be removed: he could not learn to fit into the pattern, or to get over his anti-British prejudice. The other commissioners gave his lordship no trouble: Alava was an old friend; he had a real value for clever Pozzo di Borgo from Russia; liked Baron Vincent from Austria; and was on pretty good terms with Netherlands Count van Reede.
He had been shifting his troops about all the month, skillfully concentrating them, forming new brigades, extending here, drawing his regiments in there, until he felt himself to be in a position to withstand any attack. The Prince of Orange’s Headquarters were fixed at Braine-le-Comte, but his lordship placed Lord Hill, wise in war, farther west, at Grammont, because to the west lay his communication lines, and the great Mons and Tournay roads from France. In addition to Clinton’s and Colville’s divisions, forming the 2nd Corps under Hill, his lordship transferred Prince Frederick’s corps to him, moving it north-west from Soignes and Braine-le-Comte, by way of Hal and Grammont to Sotteghem, like a piece on a chessboard. Prince Frederick, surviving an interview with his lordship, betrayed a flash of unsuspected humour. ‘Il ne m’a ni grondé, ni mis aux arrêts,’ he wrote to his brother.
On May 29th, a day of blazing sunshine, the Duke reviewed the British cavalry in a natural theatre of ground on the banks of the Dender, not far from Grammont. It was an event that drew the fashionables from Brussels and Ghent on horseback and in carriages: ladies in their newest gauzes, gentlemen very natty in polished topboots, long-tailed blue coats, and skin-tight pantaloons. Worth drove his Judith there in a curricle; Lady Barbara drove herself in a phaeton, with a tiger perched up behind; the Vidals came sedately in their carriage; the amazing Sir Sydney Smith, newly arrived from Vienna, and looking so like a mountebank that it was almost impossible to see in him the hero of Acre, sat beside his lady in an open barouche; Sir Peregrine Taverner rode out on a mettlesome bay, like a score of others; and a host of French Royalists flocked out from Ghent to gaze, gasp, fling up their hands, and exclaim to see such magnificent troops, such noble horses, such glittering accoutrements!
But the cavalry paid no heed to the early French arrivals. The roads were thick with dust, and as each squadron, each troop, came on to the ground, off went belts, haversacks, and coats, and out came brushes and wisps of hay, and a regular scrubbing and dusting and polishing began, for the Duke was coming, with a galaxy of foreign visitors, headed by Marshal Blücher, and not one speck of dust must dull a shining boot or spoil the smartness of a scarlet coat, and not one hair of a charger’s tail or mane must be out of place.
The arena lay on the opposite side of the river from the village of Schendelbeke, whence the Duke’s cortège was expected to arrive, and a temporary bridge had been thrown across the Dender. Many were the anxious glances cast towards the riding ground over the river, as the men rubbed down their horses, spat on silver buttons, and polished them till the sweat ran off their bodies; and once an alarm was raised, an agonised cry of: ‘The Duke! the Duke!’
It was a full hour before he was expected to arrive, but a group of richly-dressed horsemen with waving plumes could clearly be seen coming down the hill from the village. Brushes and rags were thrust into haversacks, coats were flung on and belts buckled, but it turned out to be a false alarm. It was not Wellington after all, but the Duc de Berri, and what did the Iron Duke’s troops care for him? The brushing and the polishing were renewed, and the Duc, after riding slowly down to the bridge, suddenly set off at a gallop towards the saluting point, and halted there, glaring at the serried ranks before him. A few cursory glances were cast at him, and one or two coarse jokes cut at his expense, but no further notice was paid him, until he sent one of his suite forward to confer with Lord Uxbridge. A short colloquy took place; the word spread through the ranks that his Highness was claiming the reception due to a Prince of the Blood-Royal, and loud guffaws greeted this jest. The troops knew Mounseer; they had seen him drilling them French fellows; proper bully-ragger he was!
Back went the envoy, and off galloped his Royal Highness in a rage, his suite labouring behind him up the slope to Schendelbeke. Lord Uxbridge had evidently refused the required salute: that was the way! hurrah for his lordship!
Not until two o’clock did the Duke arrive, and by that time all the polishing was done, and the cavalry was drawn up in three imposing lines, facing the bridge. Lining the bank of the river were the Hussars, in squadrons, widely spaced, and with batteries of Horse Artillery on each flank; behind them stood the Heavy Dragoons in compact order, with four batteries; and behind them, in the same close formation, the Light Dragoons flanked by troops of 9-pounders. There were six thousand men drawn up, and it was small matter for wonder that Marshal Blücher was impressed by the sight. He rode beside the Duke, his blue eyes staring under bushy white brows, and a beaming smile under his long moustache. ‘Mein Gott, mein Gott!’ he said. ‘Ja, ja, it is goot—it is fery goot, mein frient!’
The troops, sweating under a scorching sun, choked by their high, tight collars, sat their chargers like statues, gazing rigidly before them, while the cortège passed slowly along the ranks. They knew the Duke’s hook nose and low cocked hat right enough; they knew Lord Uxbridge, in his hussar dress; and Sir George Wood, who commanded the Artillery; they even knew the Duke of Brunswick, and guessed that the stout old gentleman with the white whiskers was Marshal Blücher; but who the rest of the fine gentlemen might be, in their plumed hats and fancy foreign uniforms, they neither knew nor cared. One or two old soldiers recognised General Alava, but Generals Gneisenau, Kleist, and Ziethen, Pozzo di Borgo, and Baron Vincent, Counts van Reede, and d’Aglié, exclaiming in outlandish tongues among themselves, did not concern them. They thought the Marshal Prince von Blücher a rum touch if ever there was one, opening his bone-box to splutter out his Achs, and his Mein Gotts, and his Fery Goots!
But the Marshal Prince was enjoying himself. He had come over from Tirlemont with his chief-of-staff, and several of his generals, for this occasion, and his friend and colleague had given them a very good luncheon, sent on their horses to Ninove and driven them out from Brussels in comfortable carriages. He was on the best of terms with his colleague, and although he spoke very little English, and very bad French, they had a great deal of conversation together, and found themselves perfectly in accord. A hussar himself, he was loud in praise of the hussars drawn up before him; as for the Heavy Dragoons, quels physiques, quels beaux chevaux! Indeed, the horses impressed him more than anything. When he came to Mercer’s troop, there seemed to be no getting him past it; each subdivision was inspected, every horse exclaimed at. ‘Mein Gott, dere is not von vich is not goot for Veldt-Marshal!’ he declared.
The Duke acknowledged it. It was not to be expected that he would share in the Marshal’s rapture, but he asked Sir George Wood whose troop it was, and seemed to approve of it. It did not occur to him to speak to Captain Mercer, following him as he made the inspection. He paid no heed to him, but Mercer was not surprised: it was just like the Duke; he had never a good word for the unfortunate Artillery.
The inspection took a long time; some of the spectators grew rather bored with looking at the motionless ranks, and several ladies complained of the heat. Sir Peregrine Taverner, whose Harriet was in low spirits and had refused to attend the review, edged his way to Barbara’s phaeton; and Lady Worth, her head aching a little from the glare of the sun, closed her eyes, with a request to her lord to inform her if anything should begin to happen.
The Duke and the Marshal at last returned to the saluting point; Lord Uxbridge marched the troops past; Judith woke up; and all the wilting ladies revived at the near prospect of being able to move out of the sun and partake of refreshments.
The military cortège began to move about among the civilians before riding back to Ninove. Various persons were presented to the Marshal Prince; and Colonel Audley was able to seize the opportunity of exchanging a few words with Lady Barbara.
‘How do you contrive to look so cool?’ he asked ruefully.
‘I can’t think. I’m bored to tears, Charles!’
‘I know. Devilish tedious, isn’t it?’
‘I only came to see George, and I couldn’t even pick him out in that dreadful scarlet mass!’ she said pettishly.
‘He looked very handsome, I assure you.’
She yawned. ‘I’ll swear he was cursing the heat! I wish you will drive home with me. We will dine outside the town in one of those charmingly vulgar places in the suburbs, and drink our wine at a table by the roadside, just as the burghers do. It will be so amusing!’
‘Oh, don’t!’ he begged. ‘It sounds delightful, and I can’t do it!’
‘Why can’t you?’ she demanded, lifting her eyebrows. ‘Is it beneath the dignity of a staff officer?’