The Fields of Death r-4, page 60
part #4 of Revolution Series
Arthur thought a moment. The prospect of returning to Kitty troubled him. He had been a soldier for far longer than he had been a husband, and he feared that peace would make the strains of their marriage unavoidable. He cleared his throat.‘I will see to my men at Bordeaux first. I owe them my thanks, and I must see that they are returned to Britain as swiftly as possible. Then I shall return home to my family.’
Castlereagh looked surprised, and then shrugged. ‘As you will. Though I dare say that your nation will want its share of you before you can be allowed to enjoy the privacy of family life. You must know that all England holds you in far higher regard than even these people.’ He gestured at the cheering crowd. ‘Best get used to being the darling of the public, Wellington.’
Arthur nodded, but inside he felt himself shudder at the prospect. The affections of the mob were as changeable as the winds, and just as lacking in substance. So much had happened in the space of a month, he reflected. It was hard to measure the passage of days when each was so filled with events. The pace had been delirious, yet Arthur knew that he had an obligation to his soldiers to ensure that they were able to reap the profits of peace as soon as possible.
Once the celebrations in Paris were over Arthur returned to the army’s new headquarters at Bordeaux to oversee the dispersal of the soldiers who had served him, and England, so well during the war in the Peninsula and southern France. The British regiments were bound for a variety of destinations. Most would return to Britain, but some were destined for Ireland, the West Indies and the ongoing war in the American colonies.
The first formations to leave the army were the remaining Spanish troops, and then the Portuguese, setting off towards the Pyrenees, cheering Arthur as they marched past. The only ticklish business was what to do with the small army of camp followers, especially the ‘soldiers’ wives’ - the women who had attached themselves to many of the British soldiers, and borne them children. Very few were allowed to accompany their men back to England, and not a few of the soldiers simply refused to accept responsibility for them. So it was that Arthur watched a third column, weighed down by misery and the fear of an uncertain future, as it tramped away towards the border along with a motley collection of mules and carts.
It remained for Arthur to draft the last of his General Orders before the army was broken up. As he wrote, late into the evening of his last night with his soldiers, Arthur was well aware that he had honed the finest army in Europe and his men would have marched anywhere and done anything at his command. For all the desire for peace that burned in his heart he could not help feeling regret over the loss of such a formidable body of soldiers. Soon, all that was left to them would be the memories of their campaigns, the slowly dwindling impressions of battles that had shaped history. These would be tales recounted by stooped veterans to generations yet to be born, few of whom would ever grasp the significance of what Arthur’s men had achieved, outnumbered and far from home.
While he was certain to have won his place in the memory of his nation Arthur was saddened to think that those lesser in rank who had fought at his side were destined to slip into his shadow. He paused a moment to collect his thoughts before penning the last paragraph.
Although circumstances may alter the relations in which the Field Marshal stood towards his men, so much to his satisfaction, he assures them that he shall never cease to feel the warmest interest in their welfare and honour; and that he will be at all times happy to be of any service to those to whose conduct, discipline and gallantry their country is so much indebted.
Arthur lowered his pen and read through the order. The words seemed a poor vehicle for the sense of affection and obligation that filled his heart. He could only hope that the men understood him well enough by now to see beyond the words. He called for Somerset to take the order for duplication and distribution throughout the army. Then he made his way up to his sleeping chamber. The hour was late, well past midnight, and at first light he would be leaving his men, his comrades, and returning home.
Chapter 52
London, 24 June 1814
‘By God, I’ve had enough of this,’ Arthur muttered wearily as the carriage and mounted escort halted yet again as the crowd blocked the way ahead. Ever since he had landed at Dover the previous day, Arthur had been thronged by his countrymen. Word of his return had spread along the road to London well ahead of his carriage and excited mobs of men, women and children, of all social stations, waited to catch a glimpse of the man who had delivered them, and Europe, from the clutches of the French Emperor. At first Arthur had been happy to rise up and lean out of the window to return their greetings, but as each occasion caused further delay, he settled back into his seat and merely nodded or waved as they approached the capital.
Now they were stuck in a street not far from Westminster Bridge. Outside, the cheery faces of the people contrasted with the grimy brickwork of a tannery from which smoke and stench curled into the warm air of a summer’s day. Turning to look through the small window under the driver’s bench, Arthur could see that a large man had stopped the carriage and was gesturing to his friends to take the reins of the six horses that had pulled it from the last posting inn.
‘What the devil is he doing?’ Arthur muttered.
‘Do you wish me to go and see, your grace?’ asked Somerset.
‘By all means. Tell the fellow to clear the way and let us through.’
Somerset nodded, and opened the carriage door. Immediately there was a deafening cheer from outside, which swiftly fell away as Somerset looked up and the people could see that it was not their hero. He stepped down on to the road, shutting the door behind him. ‘Let me through! Out of my way there!’
Arthur settled back into his seat and stared at the rear of the carriage, ignoring the faces pressed round the small windows of each door. Outside he heard a voice calling out above the din of the crowd.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, we don’t mean no ’arm. Me and these others are just wantin’ ter drag ’is grace’s carriage to ’is ’ome. Back to the arms of ’is good lady wife.’
Arthur hissed a sigh. This was the traditional way that the mob paid their respects to English heroes. They had done it for Pitt and Nelson, and now him. Five years earlier, during the Cintra inquiry, they had been bellowing for his head. He had no wish to humour their fickle mood. Besides, the spectacle of being dragged through London by this baying mob would be demeaning. As Somerset attempted to reason with the man, Arthur slapped his hand down on his thigh.
‘Damn it!’ he growled. ‘I’ll not stand for it.’
He rose from his seat and opened the door, dropping quickly to the ground. Those closest to him were stunned into silence by his abrupt appearance and Arthur pressed through them towards the six men from the Life Guards who had been sent to Dover to escort him. He clicked his fingers at the nearest rider.
‘I need your horse.’
‘Your grace?’ The rider looked at him in surprise.
‘Be so good as to dismount,’ Arthur said evenly.‘I require your horse. I shall ensure that it is returned to you when I have finished with it.’
As soon as the man had slid down, Arthur climbed into the saddle and quickly took the reins. The nearest people in the crowd looked on curiously, while up ahead others continued to unharness the carriage, oblivious of what was going on behind it.
‘The escort can return to barracks,’ Arthur instructed the sergeant commanding the six men. He had no wish to attract undue attention as he made his way through London to the house in Hamilton Place. As the sergeant saluted, Arthur turned the horse towards a side street and waved his hand.
‘Make way!’
The horse clopped forward, and the crowd parted. Arthur trotted into a side street lined with small shops. Many of the windows were decorated with coloured ribbons and several had crude prints of a soldier whose uniform was gaudily hung with medals and stars. With a mental wince Arthur realised that these were depictions of him and he gave thanks that he was dressed in his blue coat. Doing his best to avoid the eyes of anyone he passed,Arthur followed the street and then turned right towards the Thames and emerged on to the embankment. Glancing downriver towards Westminster Bridge, he could see that the bridge and the approaches to it were packed with people, so he turned away to find another crossing.
It felt strange to be back in England again, after four years of campaigning in foreign lands. For almost all that time his companions had been soldiers. Now he was surrounded by civilians who had carried on with their lives largely untouched by the war that had been fought on the sea and over foreign lands, Arthur was not sure which felt more unreal, the world he had just emerged from, or the one into which he was returning.
He passed by familiar, and yet somehow not familiar, landmarks with a growing sense of trepidation as he entered Piccadilly. His heart began to beat faster, and he slowed his horse as he approached the entrance to Hamilton Place. There he stopped, looking down the houses lining the wide street towards the door where Kitty and his children awaited him. The news of his return to England would surely have reached them by now and Arthur wondered if they were sitting inside, watching the street for the first sign of him. He edged his mount over to the corner, to keep out of sight.
What was holding him back, he wondered. It was almost as if he dared not continue. For a moment he was tempted to ride on, and report his return to Horseguards, and perhaps visit Richard. Anything but face Kitty and two sons he barely knew.
‘Damned fool!’ he muttered to himself. This was how wars ended. No man could or should fight for his entire life. War was a necessary evil, as Arthur had frequently pointed out to his officers, and its sole purpose was the restitution of peace and the return of soldiers to the arms of their families. And yet here he stood, on the threshold of his return, reluctant to cross it.
With a quick kick of his heels and a tug on the reins Arthur turned the horse into Hamilton Place and trotted along the row of neat steps rising to imposing columned entrances. He drew up outside the house and eased himself down from the saddle. Hitching the reins to the railing, he took a calming breath and climbed the steps to the front door. Before he could reach it, the door opened, and there stood Kitty, in a plain muslin dress, drawn close beneath her bust as if she were still a young girl at the court of the Viceroy in Dublin. She squinted slightly and her bottom lip trembled until she bit down on it gently.
‘Arthur?’ She raised a hand to her face. ‘Arthur.’
He stood still and stared at her for an instant, and then nodded. ‘I’ve come home.’
He felt a fool as soon as he said it, and then stepped up and took her hands in his. Any more words he might have said dried in his throat as he looked down at her. She seemed older than he had thought she would. There were faint creases around her eyes and the eyes themselves had lost the sparkling lustre he had recalled whenever he had thought of her in the Peninsula. Yet there was still the same small nose and fine lips that had first caught his attention.
Then she smiled, shyly, and Arthur could not help a nervous laugh, relieved that his pleasure at seeing her felt genuine. ‘By God! I’ve come home!’ He laughed and drew her to him, kissing her on the forehead, then again on the cheek and lastly on the lips, until she pulled back with a surprised look.
‘Arthur! People will see.’
‘Let them.’ He cupped her cheek and kissed her on the lips again. Now Kitty laughed, and tugged his sleeve, pulling him inside the door. A servant stood to one side, staring at the opposite wall as he reached for the door and began to close it.
‘Wait,’ Arthur intervened. ‘That horse needs returning to its master.’ He turned to the servant. ‘Might I know your name?’
‘Jenkins, your grace.’
‘Well then, Jenkins, I have an errand for you. The horse belongs to a trooper of the Life Guards. I’d be obliged if you returned it to him at once.’
The servant glanced at the animal with little enthusiasm, and then bowed his head. ‘As you wish, your grace.’
He left the house, closing the door behind him. They were alone, and he kissed Kitty again, closing his eyes and breathing in her scent, as if for the first time. Then he pulled back and arched an eyebrow. ‘I believe I have two sons somewhere?’
She grinned and gestured towards the open door of the front parlour. Arthur walked slowly towards it, seeing a mental image of the two infants he had left behind years before. Sunlight was pouring in through the tall sash windows and seated on a window seat, looking out into the street, sat Arthur and Charles. They looked round as he entered and stared at him.
‘Oh, come now!’ Kitty beckoned. ‘You know this is your father. He has returned home.’
They rose up obediently and stepped across the room, stopping two paces in front of Arthur and bowing their heads nervously.
‘How do you do, Father,’ the older boy said formally, as he had been taught to do.
Arthur gazed at them, his heart filled with a profound melancholic ache. These were his sons. His flesh and blood, whom he had come to love in the abstract. He felt that he should show them some affection. He should do what any father would in the same circumstances. Yet something held him back. Both boys were unable to conceal their nervousness as they looked up at him warily. There was a pause, then Kitty touched Arthur on the sleeve.
‘You have had a long journey. I expect you might like some refreshment.’
‘Yes. Yes, I would. Some tea, if you please, Kitty.’
She smiled warmly as he spoke her name. Then she looked at him and cocked an eyebrow. ‘No baggage?’
‘It is on the carriage. It will come shortly.’
‘Good.’ She smiled again. ‘I’ll leave you with our boys.’
Arthur felt a stab of panic but before he could reply Kitty had left the room. He turned back to his sons and cleared his throat. ‘Hah. Hm. Well then . . .’
They stared back mutely, and the silence was painful and awkward. Then the youngest, Charles, looked down at his feet and spoke quietly. ‘Did you really beat the French tyrant, Father?’
‘Yes, I did.’ Arthur cocked his head to one side. ‘That is to say, I beat his minions. Alas, I did not have the chance to beat the tyrant himself.’
‘Oh . . .’ The boy looked so surprised and disappointed that Arthur could not help chuckling.
‘But the war is over, isn’t it, Father?’
‘Yes, it’s over. Bonaparte is defeated and we shall have peace, and with luck you two shall never have to go and fight an enemy for as long as you live.’
‘But I want to be a soldier,’ the older boy said. ‘Just like you.’
Arthur looked at him fondly. ‘A soldier you may be, but I pray that you shall never have to fight in such a war as I have. Come.’ He reached out to them and they hesitantly let him take their hands. Arthur squeezed them lightly. ‘Let’s go over to the window seat and we shall talk all about it.’
The celebrations that had begun in Paris continued in London with equal extravagance. Tsar Alexander and King Frederick William, together with their courts, joined the great pageant. Once again the focus was upon Arthur as the foremost man amongst the ranks of those who had opposed Bonaparte. The flow of rewards and honours laid at his feet seemed endless. He entered the House of Lords bearing the titles of Viscount, Earl, Marquess and Duke. He was presented with the freedom of towns across England while Oxford awarded him an honorary doctorate. At the service of thanksgiving in St Paul’s Cathedral, Arthur carried the sword of state. The leading politicians of both the Whig and the Tory persuasion courted him relentlessly, entreating him to name his political office in return for his allegiance. Arthur turned them down with as much politeness as he could muster.
While Arthur was the darling of the social world, his domestic situation troubled him. Within weeks of his return Kitty’s shortcomings, overlooked in the first flush of pleasure at being reunited, came back to the fore. Though earnest and eager to play her part as the wife of the nation’s hero, Kitty lacked the sophistication, and indeed the beauty, of many of the women Arthur encountered in society. It pricked his heart to make such unfair comparisons. Her short-sightedness condemned her to squint or stare blankly at balls and dinners, and she quickly fell victim to the suspicion that she was being spoken about or mocked by those she could not clearly see. She would fall quiet, retreating into the safety of silence, while the world paid court to her husband.
Nor was it easy to step into the role of a father. All that Arthur and Charles knew of him was refracted through the public adulation that had greeted his victories. So the boys had come to know him as a distant hero and were inclined to regard him with awe, finding it difficult to accept him as merely a father. Arthur tried to spend as much time with them as possible, but that summer his public life all but consumed every day, and they became an extended part of his audience, looking on from a distance.
Gradually the celebrations died down. The foreign dignitaries returned to the Continent and minds turned towards adapting the world to peace. Less than a month later Arthur and Somerset were in Brussels inspecting the British army placed under his command before he went to take up the embassy in Paris. A handful of the officers or men were veterans and the army was too small to mount any kind of intervention in France. The King of the Netherlands, though an ally, was wary of showing too much favour to the foreign troops on his soil. His newly acquired Belgian subjects were still loyal to France, and many of them had served Bonaparte faithfully during his last campaigns. So the British soldiers were denied access to the forts and towns along the border and remained in camp around Brussels.
