An Infamous Army

Chapter Eleven

The review of the Dutch - Belgian Army at Nivelles, by King William and the Duke of Wellington, passed off creditably. The Duke found the Nassau troops excellent; the Dutch Militia good, but young; and the Cavalry, though bad riders, remarkably well-mounted. Prince Frederick impressed him as being a fine lad, and he wrote as much to Earl Bathurst, in a private letter.

The pity was that his lordship was not similarly pleased with Prince Frederick's father. He was the most difficult person to deal with his lordship had ever met.

With professions in his mouth of a desire to do verything I can suggest, he objects to everything I propose; it then comes to be a matter of negotiation for a week, and at last is settled by my desiring him to arrange it as he pleases, and telling him that I will have nothing to say to him."

Bathurst, who was well acquainted with the Duke's temper, might smile a little over this letter, but there was no doubt that his lordship was being harassed on all sides. He was hampered by possessing no command over the King's Army; and he was receiving complaints at the conduct of his engineers at Ypres, who were accused of cutting his Majesty's timber for palisades.

He believed the complaints to be groundless, and was not quite pleased with the way in which they were made.

But the jealousies of the Dutch and the Belgians were small matters compared with the behaviour of the Horse Guards in London. He was accustomed to meet with annoying hindrances in foreign countries, and could deal with them. The powers at the Horse Guards were irritating him far more, with their mania for sending him out bevies of ineligible young gentlemen to fill staff posts. No sooner had he turned off eight officers from the adjutant-general's staff than he received an official letter from Sir Henry Torrens appointing eight others. He had written pretty sharply to Sir Henry on the subject. They talked glibly at the Horse Guards of all such appointments resting at his nomination, but, in actual fact, this was far from being true. His lordship complained of being wholly without power to name any of the officers recommended by his generals, because every place was filled from London. "Of the list you and Colonel Shawe have sent, there are only three who have any experience at all," wrote his lordship acidly. "Of those there are two, Colonel Elley and Lord Greenock, who are most fit for their situations, and I am most happy they are selected… As for the others, if they had been proposed to me I should have rejected them all."

The very same day he was sending off another despatch to Torrens, begging him to let him see more troops before sending any more general officers. "I have no objection; on the contrary, I wish for Cole and Picton to command divisions," wrote his lordship, with every intention of seeming gracious. "I shall be very happy to have Kempt and Pack, and will do the best I can for them…" Quite an affable despatch, this one, much more conciliatory than the one that was on its way to Lord Bathurst. His lordship was not getting the artillery he had demanded; instead of 150 pieces he was to have only eighty-four, including German artillery. He considered his demand to have been excessively small, and he told Bathurst so. "You will see by reference to Prince Hardenberg's return of the Prussian Army that they take into the field nearly 80 batteries, manned by 10,000 artillery. Their batteries are of eight guns each, so that they will have 600 pieces. They do not take this number for show or amusement," continued his lordship sardonically, "and although it is impossible to grant my demand, I hope it will be admitted to be small."

But in spite of the querulous tone of his despatches to London he was not so ill-pleased, after all. He might complain that in England they were doing nothing, and where unable to send him anything, but before April was out he was writing quite cheerfully to Hardinge, English Commissioner to the Prussians, that he was getting on in strength, and had now 60,000 men in their shoes, of whom at least 10,000 were cavalry.

He was glad when Prince Blucher arrived at the Prussian Headquarters. He liked old Marshal "Forwards", but he wished he would not write to him in German.

But Blucher, with his dozen words of English, and his execrable French, was a better man to deal with than his chief-of-staff. A jealous fellow, Gneisenau. always making difficulties and suspecting him of duplicity.

However, that was a minor annoyance; on the whole, his lordship was satisfied with his Prussian allies. though the circumstance of their being continually at loggerheads with King William gave him a good deal of trouble. Poor old Blucher was quite lacking in polish: nor could he be made to realise the value of tact in dealing with a fellow like King William. He was for ever omitting to make just those courteous gestures which would have cost him so little and soothed the King's dignity so much. Rather a difficult yoke-fellow, Blucher, apt to get the bit between his teeth, and, unfortunately, imbued with such a dislike of the French that he could not be brought to tolerate even the Royalists among them. But he was not afraid of meeting Bonaparte in the field, and he was a likeable old man, with his fierce, rosy face and fine white whiskers, his spluttering enthusiasm, and his beaming smile.

His lordship was much more comfortable at Headquarters now, for he had got his military secretary back, and Sir Colin Campbell too. His lordship was fond of Lord Fitzroy Somerset, who had lately married his niece, and had so become his nephew by marriage. Lord Fitzroy exactly suited him; for he did what he was told, never committing the appalling offence of setting up ideas of his own and acting on them. His lordship detested independently-minded subordinates. It was not the business of his officers to think for themselves. "Have my orders for whatever you do!" he said. It was an inflexible rule; nothing made him angrier than to have it broken.

Lord Fitzroy never broke it. He could be trusted to obey every order punctiliously. He got through an amazing amount of work, too, often in the most unsuitable surroundings, and always with a quiet competence that seemed to make little of the mass of correspondence on his hands. He was not one of those troublesome officers, either, who were for ever wanting to go home on leave to attend to urgent private affairs which his lordship was convinced could be quite as well settled by correspondence. Nor had he ever discovered (just when he was most needed) that the climate in Spain disagreed with his constitution. You could always be sure of Fitzroy.

His lordship was sure of Colin Campbell, too, who had been with him so many years, and managed his household so admirably, in spite of his inability to speak intelligibly any foreign language.

In fact, his lordship was perfectly happy in his personal staff. As for his general staff, though he complained peevishly of having strangers foisted on to him, and of being unable to entrust the details of the departments to any of the young gentlemen on the staff, he was not (if the truth were told) so very badly off there either. He might write to Toreens that he had no means of naming any of the officers he would prefer to all others, but somehow they began to appear on the general staff; seasoned men like Elley, and Waters, Felton Hervey, Greenock, Woodford, Gomm, Shaw, and any number of others. He had Barnes for his adjutant-general; and was getting De Lancey sent out as quartermaster-general; in place of Sir Hudson Lowe. He wanted Murray, of course: De Lancey was only a deputy; but Murray was still in America, and he could not really blame Torrens for being unable to spirit him back to Europe.

To read his lordship's despatches you might think he had no power at all over the appointments in the Army. In one of his irritable moods, he wrote another barbed letter to Bathurst. "I might have expected that the Generals and Staff formed by me in the last war would have been allowed to come to me again," he complained, and continued in a sweeping style which made Lord Bathurst grin appreciatively: "But instead of that, I am overloaded with people I have never seer before; and it appears to be purposely intended to keep those out of my way whom I wished to have." His lordship felt much better after that explosion of wrath, and added: "However, I'll do the best I can with the instruments which have been sent to assist me."

But gentlemen applying for staff appointments in the Duke's army were told at the Horse Guards that the selection of officers to fill these was left to the Duke: and occasionally his lordship seemed to forget that he had no power to employ gentlemen of his own choosing. He might complain of having his hands tied, but when it came to the point his lordship seemed to do very much what he liked. When he wanted Lieutenant-Colonel Grant to come out to him to be at the head of the Intelligence Department, and Lieutenant-Colonel Scovell to take charge of the Department of Military Communications, he told Lord Fitzroy to write offering the posts to both these gentlemen, and only afterwards informed Torrens of having done so. He hoped, coolly, that it would be approved of, and, in point of fact, had not the least doubt that it would be approved of.

But you could not be surprised at his lordship's being a little testy. He was not a pessimistic man, but he rather liked to have a grievance, and was very apt to grumble that he was obliged to do everyone's work in addition to his own. He had, moreover, an overwhelming amount of work of his own to do, and endless annoyances to deal with. The wonder was not that he was peevish in his office but that he was so cheerful out of it. Quite apart from the all-important task of putting the country and the Army in a state of readiness for war, he was obliged to tackle such problems as the amounts of the subsidies to be granted to the various countries engaged in the campaign. First it was Hanover (a complicated business, that); then Austria; then Russia (shocking people to deal with, the Russians); and next it would be the Duke of Brunswick, already on the march with his troops to join the Army.

Subsidies one moment, wagons for the Hanoverians the next; then some quite trivial matter, such as old Arendtschildt's request for permission for certain of his officers to receive a Russian decoration: there was no end to the business requiring his lordship's attention;yet in the midst of it all he could find time to review troops, pay flying visits to garrisons, attend parties, and even to give a large party himself, and appear as lighthearted at it as though he had not a care in the world.

His lordship had a natural taste for festivities, and during his late spell of office as Ambassador to King Louis, had acquired the habit of planning his own parties on a lavish scale. His first in Brussels was a brilliant affair, comprising a dinner at the Hotel de Belle Vue to his more important guests, including the King and Queen of the Netherlands, followed by a concert, ball, and supper at the Salle du Grand Concert, in the Rue Ducale.

It quite eclipsed the Court party, held some days previously. Everything went off without the smallest hitch; the Catalani was in her best voice; the Duke was the most affable of hosts; his staff seconded him ably: and the Salle was so crowded with distinguished persons that it became at times quite difficult to move about.

The invitation list was indeed enormous, and had cost the staff many a headache, for besides the English in Brussels all the Belgian and Dutch notables had received elegant, cream-laid, gilt-edged cards requesting the honour of their presence. Nearly all of them had accepted, too: the Duc d'Ursel, with his big nose and tiny chin; cheerful little Baron Hoogvorst, and Madame; competent M. van der Capellan, the Secretary of State; the Duc and Duchesse de Beaufort, and Mademoiselle; bevies of Counts and Countesses and Dowager Countesses, all with their blushing daughters and hopeful sons; and of course the Royals: King William, and his lethargic spouse, with their splendid young son, Frederick, and an extensive suite. The Prince of Orange was present as well, but could hardly be included in the Royal party, since he arrived separately, was dressed in the uniform of the Prince of Wales's Own, talked nothing but English, and consorted almost exclusively with his English friends and fellow-generals. He had quite forgotten his huff at being superseded in the command of the Army. He was going to be given the 1st Corps, Lord Hill having the 2nd; and his dread mentor was treating him with so much confidence that he had nothing left to wish for. "For ever your most truly devoted and affectionate William, Prince of Orange," was how the Prince subscribed himself exuberantly in his letters to the Duke. All he ever received in return was "Believe me, & etc., Wellington." His lordship was never fulsome. "Je supplie Votre Altesse d'agreer en bonze les sentiments respectueux avec lesquels j'ai l'honneur d'etre, Vlonseigneur, de Votre Altesse le tres humble et tres obeissant serviteur," would write some Prussian general painstakingly. "Write him that I am very much obliged to him," scrawled the Duke at the foot of such despatches.

But the Prince of Orange was too well acquainted with his lordship to be cast down by his chilly letters. In fact, the Prince was in high fettle. His personal staff was composed of just the men he liked best: all English, and including his dear friend the Earl of March. He was very happy, sparkling with gaiety, looking absurdly young, and just a little conscious of the dizzy military heights to which he had risen. Sometimes he felt intoxicatingly important, and was a trifle imperious with the generals under his command; but when he found himself in Lord Hill's presence, and looked into that kindly face, with its twinkling eyes and fatherly smile, his importance fell away from him, and he was all eager deference, just as he was with the Duke, or with the veteran Count Alten of the German Legion, whose bright, stern gaze could always disconcert him. Sir Charles Count von Alten was under the Prince, in command of the 3rd Division, which was formed of one British brigade, under Sir Colin Halkett; one brigade of the German Legion, under Baron Ompteda; and one Hanoverian brigade, under Count Kielmansegg. Count Alten was fifty-one years of age, seasoned in war, and rather grim-faced. He was an extremely competent general - so competent that even the men of the Light Division had approved of him when he had commanded them - and a somewhat alarming person for a young gentleman only twenty-four years old to have under him. He was very polite to the Prince, and they got on really very well together, but his Royal Highness was glad that the rest of the 1st Corps, with the exception of the Guards, was composed of Dutch-Belgian troops under two generals who, though experienced soldiers, naturally had a respect for their Hereditary Prince which the English and the Germans could not be expected to share. His bete noire, and late second-in-command, Sir Henry Clinton, was commanding a division in Hill's corps; and that much more alarming person even than Count Alten, Sir Thomas Picton, was destined for the Reserve.

Sir Thomas was not expected to arrive in the Netherlands for quite some time, but it was certain that he was coming sooner or later, for the Duke, although he did not much care for him in a personal way, had made a point of asking for him.

The latest important arrival was Lord Uxbridge. A General Order instructing brigade commanders of cavalry to report in future to him had been issued from the adjutant-general's printing office on the day of the Duke's ball. He was to have command of all the British and German cavalry, and was reputed to be a very dashing leader.

He had arrived in the Netherlands in time to attend the Duke's party, and was present at the preceding dinner. When he appeared in the Salle du Concert he attracted a great deal of attention, for the men were anxious to see what sort of a fellow he was, and the ladies could hardly drag their eyes from his resplendent person.

The Peninsula Army had been accustomed to Stapleton Cotton, now Lord Combermere, but the Earl of Uxbridge was the better cavalry general. He had served with distinction under Sir John Moore, but two circumstances had prevented his being employed under Wellington. He had been senior to the Duke, and had further complicated the situation by absconding with the wife of Wellington's brother Henry. This unfortunate affair put the Pagets and the Wellesleys on the worst of bad terms. Henry had been obliged to divorce Lady Charlotte, and any scheme of sending Lord Uxbridge out to Spain had naturally been felt to have been out of the question. Five years later, in 1815, it was understood thing that Combermere would again command the Cavalry: the Army wanted him, and was certain that the Duke had applied for him. But to everyone's surprise the Horse Guards sent Uxbridge instead. It was said they had done so at the instigation of that meddlesome person, the Prince Regent, and was generally felt that the appointment would not only cause grave scandal in England but must also offend the Duke. But the Duke, like the Regent, was not remarkable for holding the marriage tie in any peculiar degree of sanctity, and upon a friend's saying to him that Lord Uxbridge's appointment would give rise to much scandal, replied, with one of his high-noses' stares: "Why?"

A little disconcerted, his well-meaning friend stammered: "Well, but - but your Grace cannot have forgotten the affair of Lady Charlotte!"

"No! I haven't forgotten that."

"Oh! Well - well, that's not all, you know. They say Uxbridge runs away with everyone he can."

"I'll take damned good care he don't run away with me!" replied the Duke caustically. "I don't care about anyone else."

The Army, like the Duke, did not care a button for Lord Uxbridge's amatory adventures: it merely wanted a good cavalry leader. Lord Uxbridge was said to be a veritable Murat: it remained to be seen whether this was true. He was also said to be very haughty. He did not seem so, at first glance: his manners were most polished, his smile ready, and his handshake freely given. His mouth had, indeed, a slightly disdainful curve, and his brilliant dark eyes were rather heavy-lidded, which made them look a little contemptuous, but he showed no signs of snubbing junior officers (which rumour accused him of doing frequently), and seemed, without being over-conciliatory, or in any way affected, to be bent on getting on good terms with his people.

Like the Prince of Orange, he wore full-dress hussar uniform, but with what a difference! No amount of silver lace, swinging tassels, rich fur, or shining buttons could invest the Prince's meagre form with dignity. In that most splendid of uniforms he looked over-dressed, and rather ridiculous. But Lord Uxbridge, tall and most beautifully proportioned, carried it off to perfection. He was forty-seven years old, but looked younger, and was obviously something of a dandy. His white net pantaloons showed not a single crease; over a jacket sitting tightly to the body and almost obscured by the frogs that adorned it, he wore a furred and braided pelisse, caught round his neck with tasselled cords and flung back to hang negligently over his left shoulder. Under the stiff, silver-encrusted collar of his jacket, a black cravat was knotted, with the points of his shirt collar just protruding above it. Several glittering orders, very neat side-whiskers, and fashionably arranged hair completed his appearance. He had not brought his lady out from England, but whether he had left her behind out of tact or from the circumstance of her being in theexpectation of a Happy Event was a matter for conjecture. Two of his aides-de-camp were with him: Major Thornhill, of his own regiment, the 7th Hussars; and Captain Seymour, supposed to be the strongest man in the British Army. He was certainly the largest: he topped even the Life Guardsmen, and had such a gigantic frame that he was a butt to his friends and an object of considerable respect to everyone else.

As usual, the military predominated at the ball. Lord Hill was present, with all three of his brothers; General Maitland and Byng; old Sir John Vandeleur, very bluff and affable; General Adam; Sir Henry Clinton, with Lady Susan on his arm; General Colville, who had come all the way from Oudenarde to attend the function; Sir Hussey Vivian, with his shattered hand in a sling, but still perfectly capable of leading his hussar brigade in any charge; Sir William Ponsonby, newly arrived from England with the Union Brigade of Heavy Dragoons; handsome Colonel Sir Frederick Ponsonby, of another branch of the family, with his sister, Lady Caroline Lamb; both the gallant Halketts, Sir Colin and his brother Hew; the adjutant-general, sharp-faced and fiery-spirited; Colonel Arendtschildt, talking to everyone in his incorrigibly bad English; General Perponcher; and genial Baron Chasse, whom the French, under whom he had served, called Captain Bayonette; Baron Constant de Rebecque, a favourite with the Peninsular officers; Count Bylandt, from Nivelles; and a cluster of Dutch and Belgian cavalry leaders: Baron Ghigny, a little assertive; Baron van Merlen, a little melancholy; General Trip, a heavy man, like his own carabiniers.

Besides those distinguished personages, there were any number of young officers, all very smart and gallant, and acquitting themselves nobly on the floor of the ballroom under the Duke's indulgent eye. Provided there was no question of neglected duty involved, his lordship liked to see his boys dancing the night through, and always made a point of inviting young officers (of the best families, of course) to his balls. They made a good impression on foreigners: such a nice-looking, well-set up lot as they were! But besides that, his lordship liked the younger men; he kept his eye on the promising ones among them, and would very often single them out above their elders. Colborne had been one of his favoured young men; Harry Smith, that mad boy with the Spanish child-wife; and poor Somers Cocks, who had ended a brilliant career at Burgos. "The young ones will always beat the old ones," said his Lordship, and those he chose for his patronage certainly seemed to prove the truth of his dictum.

As for his personal staff, he was really fond of those youngsters. The oldest of them was Audley at thirty-five, and the rest were mere lads in their twenties, even Lord Fitzroy, at present engaged in shepherding two Belgian ladies to a couple of seats in the front row.

The Duke's eagle eye swept the concert hall, noting with satisfaction that his family were all present, and all performing their duties as hosts to the throng of guests.

A good deal of surprise had been felt in Paris at the youthful aspect of his staff, but his lordship knew what he was about when he chose these young scions of noble houses to live with him. He did not want middle-aged men with distinguished records with him: they could be better employed elsewhere, and would, moreover, have bored him. He wanted polished young men of good families, who were of his own world, who knew how to make themselves pleasant in exalted circles, and could amuse his leisure moments with their adventures, and their fun, and their bubbling energy. On an occasion such as this they were invaluable: nothing awkward about any of them; all well-bred boys who had come to him from Oxford or Cambridge (and not from any new-fangled Military College), accustomed all their lives to moving in the first circles, and consequently assured in their manners, graceful in the ballroom, conversable in the salon.

When he came in with his Royal guests, the rest of the party was already assembled. Everyone stood up, the soldiers to attention, civilian gentlemen deeply bowing, and all the ladies swaying into curtsies like lilies in a high wind. The King and Queen acknowledged their reception, the Duke gave a quick look round, saw that everything was just as it should be, nodded his satisfaction to Colonel Audley, who happened to be standing near him, and escorted the Royals to their places.

The concert began with a Haydn symphony, but although his lordship, who had a great appreciation of good music, enjoyed it, the piece de resistance for most of his guests was the appearance of La Catalani. His lordship described her as being as sharp as a Jew, and Colonel Fremantle had certainly found her so. Nothing could induce her to sing more than two songs, and she had haggled over them. However, when she mounted the platform, she looked as lovely as any angel, and when she opened her mouth and let the golden notes soar heavenwards, even Fremantle felt that he must have misjudged her. She favoured the company first with an aria from Porto-Gullo, and then with an allegro, which showed off the flexibility of her voice to admiration. She was cheered, and encored, but there was no getting another song out of her. She curtsied again and again, blew kisses to the audience, and finally withdrew, apparently exhausted.

The dancing began soon afterwards. The Duke, finding himself standing beside Barbara Childe, said: "Lovely voice that Catalani women has, don't you agree?"

"Yes, she sings like an angel, or a nightingale, or whatever the creature is that sings better than all others. She has put me quite out of temper, I can tell you, for I had a song for you, Duke, and flattered myself I should have made a hit!"

"What? Are you going to sing for me?" he asked, delighted. "Capital! I shall enjoy that, I assure you! What is your voice? Why have I not heard it before?"

"Oh," she said saucily, "it is not my voice which I Depended on to make the hit with you, but the song!"

"Ah, now I believe you are quizzing me, Lady Bab! What song is this?"

She looked demurely, under her lashes, and replied: "I am sure you would have been pleased! I should have sung for you Ahe Marmont, onde vai, Marmont!"

He gave his neigh of sudden laughter. "Oh, that's very good! That's famous! But, hush! Can't have that song nowadays, you know. Who told you about it? That rascal Audley, was it? They used to sing it a lot in Spain. Pretty tune!"

"Charming! Where was he going, poor Marmont?"

"Back to France, of course," said his lordship. "Chased out of Spain: romped, that's what the song's about."

"Oh, I see! He was in Brussels last month, I believe. Did you reckon him a great general, Duke?"

"Oh no, no!" he said, shaking his head. "Massena was the best man they ever sent against me. I always found him where I least wanted him to be. Marmont used to manoeuvre about in the usual French style, nobody knew with what object."

He caught sight of his niece, and beckoned to her, and patted her hand when she came up to him. "Not tired, Emily? That's right! Lady Bab, you must let me present my niece, Lady Fitzroy Somerset. But you must not be standing about, my dear!" he added, in a solicitous undervoice. Lady Fitzroy flushed faintly, but replied in her gentle way that she was not at all tired, had no wish to sit down, and was, in point of fact, looking for her mother and sister. The Duke reminded her bluffly that she must take care of herself, and went off to exchange a few words with Sir Charles Stuart. Lady Frances Webster, who had been watching him, was very glad to see him go. She profoundly mistrusted Barbara Childe, and had suffered quite an agonising pang at the sight of his lordship whooping with laughter at what Barbara had said to him.

Barbara, however, had no desire to steal his lordship's affection. She had begun to waltz with Colonel Ponsonby; passed from his arms to those of Major Thornhill; and found herself at the end of the dance standing close to Lord Uxbridge, who immediately stepped up to her, exclaiming: "Why, Bab, my lovely one! How do you do? They tell me you're engaged to be married! How has that come about? I thought you were a hardened case!"

She gave him her hand. "Oh, so did I, but you know how it is! Besides, Gussie tells me I shall soon be quite passee. Have you seen her? She is here somewhere."

"I caught a glimpse, but to tell you the truth I have been the whole evening shaking hands with strangers. Who is the lucky man? I hope he is one of my fellows?"

"In a way I suppose you may say that he is. He's on the Duke's staff, however - Charles Audley. But tell me, Harry: are you glad to be here?"

"Yes," he replied instantly. "Oh, I know what you are thinking, but that's old history now!"

She laughed. "It is an enchanting situation! Do you find it awkward?"

"Not a bit!" he said, with cheerful unconcern. "I go on very well with Wellington, and shall do the same with the fellows under me, when they get to know me - and I them. What's forming? A quadrille! Now, Bab, you must and you shall dance with me - for old time's sake ."

"How melancholy that sounds! You must settle it with Colonel Audley, who is coming to claim it. I daresay he won't give it up, for I told him that you were my first love, you know. Charles, I must make you known to Lord Uxbridge."

"How do you do? Bab tells me you should by rights be one of my people. By the by, you must let me congratulate you: you are a fortunate fellow! I have been Bab's servant any time these ten years knew her when she had her hair all down her back, and wouldn't sew her sampler. You are to be envied."

"I envy you, sir. I would give much to have known her then."

"She was a bad child. Now, if you please, you are to fancy yourself back in your regiment, and under my command. I have to request you, Colonel Audley (but I own it to be a dastardly trick!), to relinquish this dance to me."

The Colonel smiled. "You put me in an awkward position, sir. My duty, and all the Service Regulations, oblige me to obey you with alacrity; but how am I to do so without offending Bab?"

"I will make your peace with her, I promise you," replied Uxbridge.

"Very well, sir: I obey under strong protest."

"Quite irregular! But I don't blame you! Come, you witch, or it will be too late."

He led Barbara into the set that was forming. A hand clapped Colonel Audley on the shoulder. "Hallo, Charles! Slighted, my boy?"

The Colonel turned to confront Lord Robert Manners. "You, is it? How are you, Bob?"

"Oh, toll-loll!" said Manners, giving his pelisse a hitch. "I have just been telling Worth all the latest London scandal. You know, you're a paltry fellow to be enjoying yourself on the staff in stirring times like these, upon my word you are! I wish you were back with us."

"Enjoying myselfl You'd better try being one of the Beau's ADCs, my boy! You don't know when you're well off, all snug and comfortable with the Regiment!"

"Pho! A precious lot of comfort we shall have when we go into action. When you trot off in your smart cocked hat, with a message in your pocket, think of us, barging to death or glory!"

"I will," promised the Colonel. "And when you're enjoying your nice, packed charge, spare a thought for the lonely and damnably distinctive figure galloping hell for leather with his message, wishing to God every french sharpshooter didn't know by his cocked hat he was a staff officer, and wondering whether his horse is going to hold up under him or come down within easy reach of the French lines: he will very likely be me!"

"Oh, well!" said Lord Robert, abandoning the argument. "Come and have a drink, anyway. I have a good story to tell you about Brummell!"

The story was told, others followed it; but presently Lord Robert turned to more serious matters, and said, over a glass of champagne: "But that's enough of London! Between friends, Charles, what's happening here?"

"It's pretty difficult to say. We get intelligence from Paris, of course, and what we don't hear Clarke does: but one's never too sure of one's sources. By what we can discover, the French aren't by any means unanimous over Boney's return. All this enthusiasm you hear of belongs to the Army. It wouldn't surprise me if Boney finds himself with internal troubles brewing. Angouleme failed, of course; but we've heard rumours of something afoot in La Vendee. One thing seems certain: Boney's in no case yet to march on us. We hear of him leaving Paris, and of his troops marching to this frontier - they are marching, but he's not with them."

"What about ourselves? How do we go on?"

"Well, we can put 70,000 men into the field now, which is something."

"Too many 2nd Battalions," said Lord Robert. "Under strength, aren't they?"

"Some of them. You know how it is. We're hoping to get some of the troops back from America. But God knows whether they'll arrive in time! We miss Murray badly - but we hear we're to have De Lancey in his place, which will answer pretty well. By the by, he's married now, isn't he?"

"Yes: charming girl, I believe. What are the Dutch and Belgian troops like? We don't hear very comfortable reports of them. Disaffected, are they?"

"They're thought to be. It wouldn't be surprising: half of them have fought under the Eagles. I suppose the Duke will try to mix them with our own people as much as possible, as he did with the Portuguese. Then there will be the Brunswick Oels Jagers: they ought to do well, though they aren't what they were when we first had them with us."

"Well, no more is the Legion," said Lord Robert.

"No: they began to recruit too many foreigners. But they're good troops, for all that, and they've good generals. I don't know what the other Hanoverians are like: there's a large contingent of them, but mostly Landwehr battalions."

"It sounds to me," said Lord Robert, draining his glass, "like a devilish mixed bag. What are the Prussians like?"

"We don't see much of them. Hardinge's with them: says they're a queer set, according to our notions. When Blucher has a plan of campaign, he holds conferences with all his generals, and they discuss it, and argue over it under his very nose. I should like to see old Hookey inviting Hill, and Alten, and Picton, and the rest, to discuss his plans with him!"

Lord Robert laughed; Mr Creevey peeped into the room, and seeing the two officers, came in, rubbing his hands together, and smiling like one who was sure of his welcome. There might be news to be gleaned from Audley, not the news that was being bandied from lip to lip, but titbits of private information, such as an oficer on the Duke's staff would be bound to hear. He had buttonholed the Duke a little earlier in the evening, but had not been able to get anything out of him but nonsense. He talked the same stuff as ever, laughing a great deal, pooh-poohing the gravity of the political situation, giving it as his opinion that Boney's return would come to nothing. Carnot and Lucien Bonaparte would get up a Republic in Paris; there would never be any fighting with the Allies; the Republicans would bea: Bonaparte in a very few months. He was in a joking mood, and Mr Creevey had met jest with jest, but thought his lordship cut a sorry figure. He allowed him to be very natural and good humoured, but could no perceive the least indication of him of superior talents. He was not reserved; quite the reverse: he was communicative; but his conversation was not that of a sensible man.

"Well? What's the news?" asked Mr Creevey cheerily. "How d'ye do, Lord Robert?"

"Oh, come, sir! It's you who always have the latest news," said Colonel Audley. "Will you drink a glass of champagne with us?"

"Oho, so that's what you are up to! You're a most complete hand, Colonel! Well, just one then. What's the latest intelligence from France, eh?"

"Why, that Boney's summoning everyone to are assembly, or some such thing, in the Champ du Mars."

"I know that," said Mr Creevey. "I have been talking about it to the Duke. We have had quite a chat together. I can tell you, and some capital jokes too. He believes it won't answer, this Champ de Mai affair; that there will be an explosion; and the whole house of cards will come tumbling about Boney's ears."

"Ah, I daresay," responded the Colonel vaguely. "Don't know much about these matters, myself."

Mr Creevey drank up his wine, and went away in search of better company. He found it presently in the group about Barbara Childe. She had gathered a numbered of distinguished persons about her, just the sort of people Mr Creevey liked to be with. He joined the group, noticing with satisfaction that it included General Don Miguel de Alava, a short, sallow-faced Spaniard, with a rather simian cast of countenance, quick-glancing eyes, and a tongue for ever on the wag. Alava had lately become the Spanish Ambassador at The Hague, but was at present acting as military commissioner to the Allied Army. He had been commissar at Wellington's Headquarters in Spain, and was known to be on intimate terms with the Duke. Mr Creevey edged nearer to him, his ears on the prick.

"But your wife, Alava! Is she not with you?" Sir William Ponsonby was demanding.

Up went the expressive hands; a droll look came into Alava's face. "Ah non, par exemple!" he exclaimed. "She stays in Spain. Excellente femme! - mais forte ennuyeuse!"

Caroline Lamb's voice broke through the shout of laughter. "General Alava, what's the news? You know it all! Now tell us! Do tell us!"

"Mais, madame, je n'en sais rien! Rien, rien, rien!" Decidedly, Mr Creevey was out of luck tonight.