He looked up and nodded. ‘Very well then, I accept your condition. I will send orders to Murat to prepare the ground.’ He cleared the last morsel of meat from his plate and set it down in the grass. ‘Now let’s begin the day’s entertainment.’
Seeing the Emperor rise to his feet the rest of the hunting party hurriedly put aside what was left of their luncheon and followed suit. The guns were brought forward as the guests were led to their posts along the slope of the hillock, where patches of gorse obscured some of the shooting stands from each other. Napoleon saw that Masséna was to his right, perhaps twenty paces off. To his left was Berthier. Across the flat marsh the distant figures of the beaters were visible on the far side, and once the signal was given they began to move towards the hillock, thrashing at the ground before them and using wooden clackers to scare the birds into flight. In case the targets should be too few, or too evasive, Berthier had taken the precaution of ensuring that a plentiful supply of pheasant and duck was held ready in small cages spread out amid the long reeds and grassy hummocks ranged before the hunting party.
The beaters edged across the marsh, scaring up the game, and as soon as he judged that the birds had come within range Napoleon reached for his gun. One of the servants behind him pressed it into his hand and he drew it up and settled the stock into his shoulder. He took aim into the air above the beaters. Movement flickered to either side of his vision as ducks rose up from the marshes, quacking in panic.With a sharp thud from his right, Masséna took a bird on the wing and there was a little explosion of feathers in mid-air before the duck plummeted to earth.
‘Hah!’ Masséna called out as he handed his weapon to one of his bearers and took a loaded replacement. ‘First strike to me!’
A moment later a bird erupted from the reeds directly ahead of Napoleon and flew straight into his line of sight. He tracked it for a second and then began to lead the target before he squeezed the trigger. Instantly a cloud of smoke obliterated his view and the butt kicked savagely into his shoulder. As the breeze swept the smoke away Napoleon saw that he had winged the duck and it flapped pathetically for a little distance, losing height before it dropped into the marsh.
‘One!’ he shouted to Masséna, and reached for another gun.
As the day wore on more and more birds were frightened into the sky and were shot down by the imperial hunting party. When the beaters had exhausted the supply of birds in the marsh, they began to release those in the cages. Napoleon had become locked into a fierce competition with Masséna as each strove to score the most kills, and late in the afternoon Masséna was two birds ahead. Napoleon’s arms were beginning to ache from holding his weapon as an uncaged pheasant flapped into the air slightly to his right, warbling in panic. Knowing that Masséna would be bound to claim the bird unless he shot first, Napoleon raised his gun and tracked the bird to his right. It flew low and fast and before he realised it Napoleon had turned almost ninety degrees to the side.
‘Careful, sire!’ one of the bearers cried out in alarm.
Napoleon snatched at the trigger and the weapon went off with a loud report. Almost at once there was a cry of pain and rage and when the smoke cleared Napoleon saw that Masséna was staggering back, hands clasped to his face as blood dripped through his fingers. After an instant’s hesitation Napoleon began to run across to him, and behind came Berthier, racing towards the sound of Masséna’s shouting. When the Emperor reached Masséna the marshal was down on his knees, groaning, and his bearers were standing over him. Napoleon brushed them aside. ‘Get some bandages and water!’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘And see if there is a physician in the party.’
The bearer nodded and ran back up the hill as the shooting continued on either side. Berthier came running up, panting.
‘What happened?’
‘An accident,’ Napoleon muttered. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe away the blood on Masséna’s face.
‘Careful, damn you!’ Masséna growled. He pulled the cloth from the Emperor’s hand and mopped at the blood streaming down the left side of his face. Napoleon could see the small puncture wounds where the shot had struck, and blood and fluid seeping from the marshal’s left eye. He heard the sound of footsteps rustling through the grass as the bearer returned with an officer, Dr Larrey, who had served with Napoleon in Egypt and Syria.
Larrey bent over Masséna and examined the wounds. ‘What happened?’
‘What do you think?’ Masséna growled through clenched teeth. ‘Some careless bastard shot me in the face.’
Larrey glanced round at the Emperor.
Napoleon felt a surge of anger at the clear accusation. He turned on Berthier and glared. ‘It was you.’
‘Me? But sire . . .’
‘It was you, Berthier. It must have been.You lost sense of where you were aiming. It was an accident.’
Berthier opened and closed his mouth in numbed surprise. He looked to Larrey, and then at Masséna, and shook his head. ‘I didn’t . . .’
‘Don’t deny it, Berthier.’ Napoleon grasped his arm. ‘As I said, it was an accident. Masséna is wounded, but he will recover. Isn’t that right, doctor?’
Larrey was examining Masséna’s face closely, and did not meet the Emperor’s stare. ‘Yes, the marshal will recover, but he may lose the sight in this eye. I’ll do what I can to save the eye, of course. Can you stand, sir?’
‘Yes,’ Masséna hissed. ‘I was shot in the face, not my fucking legs.’
He struggled to his feet and Larrey gestured up the slope. ‘Follow me, sir. We’ll take your carriage back to Bayonne. I have my kit there and I can treat you.’
‘Let’s go then,’ said Masséna, and then paused to glare at Napoleon. ‘With your permission, sire.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Go.’
With the doctor gently guiding Masséna by the arm, the two made their way towards the crest of the hillock. Berthier coughed. ‘Sire?’
‘Yes.What is it?’
‘Should I call an end to the shooting party?’
Napoleon turned to his chief of staff with a frown. ‘No. There’s nothing anyone else can do for Masséna. Let the guests enjoy themselves. Except you, of course. You’ve done enough harm for one day. Return to the carriages and wait for the rest of us there.’
For a second it seemed as if Berthier would protest, but the warning glint in Napoleon’s eye challenged the chief of staff to defy him. He drew a sharp breath, clamped his mouth shut and bowed his head before turning to stride away. Napoleon watched him for a moment, and then turned back towards his hide and called out for another gun.
A week later, towards the middle of May, as the imperial party was preparing to return to Paris, a despatch arrived from Murat. There had been riots in Madrid and a mob had killed over two hundred French soldiers. Murat had responded by declaring martial law and ordering his troops on to the streets. Over two thousand Spaniards had been killed before order was restored. Napoleon lowered the report and stared at the staff officer who had brought it from Madrid.