‘Time for you to go, Stewart,’ Arthur said quietly.
‘Aye.’ Stewart nodded. ‘Mind you follow on as soon as you can, sir.’
‘I will.’ Arthur patted him on the back and then turned to face the approaching enemy. ‘Grenadier Company, make ready to fire!’
Primed and cocked, the muskets came up and were levelled towards the leading Frenchmen, who drew up at sight of the line of muzzles facing them.
‘Fire!’
There was a deafening crash as the volley went off, sending a blast of deadly lead shot through the leading ranks of the French. As the gentle breeze swiftly cleared the smoke Arthur saw that a dozen or more of the enemy were down and it took a moment before those behind pressed on, over the bodies of the dead and wounded. A man close to Arthur suddenly doubled up with a deep grunt and collapsed on to the ground, kicked once and died. Looking round, Arthur saw that those enemy soldiers who had managed to find other routes to the quay were firing into the Grenadier Company from the shelter of the nearest alleyways.
‘Fire at will!’ he ordered, then glanced round and saw that two launches were approaching the stone steps below the quay. He strode over to the company sergeant and grasped his arm. ‘Get the wounded into those boats as soon as they are alongside.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The French had halted a short distance away and both sides were firing freely at each other, and Arthur had to steel himself not to react to the whirr of balls flying past, and the thuds as they struck his men. The wounded were carried down to the first boat and then the sergeant began to pluck men out of the line and send them down until the first boat was full and it pulled off, heading back to the nearest warship. As the second boat came up to the steps Arthur bellowed the order to cease fire.
‘Quick as you can, lads! Into the boat!’
Together with the last men of the grenadier company, Arthur clambered down the steps and stepped into the launch, half falling on to one of the thwarts.The company sergeant came last and the seamen thrust the launch away and began to row.With a triumphant shout the French surged forward and Arthur realised that he and the others in the boat would be easy targets from the top of the quay.
‘Row for your lives!’ the midshipman, little more than a boy, in the stern of the launch cried out in a high-pitched voice.
The enemy began to appear along the quay and a shout went up at the sight of the launch. As the first muskets were raised in his direction Arthur felt utterly vulnerable and afraid, yet forced himself to sit quite still and not flinch. There was nothing he could do. Only providence could save him now.
There was a sudden roar from one side, and then the other, and a hail of grapeshot swept the top of the quay clear of enemy soldiers. Startled, Arthur turned and saw that the launches on the flanks had fired their carronades, and were already reloading as the men on the oars began to stroke the vessels away from the quay. One of the seamen in Arthur’s boat let out a cheer.
‘Shut your bloody mouth!’ the midshipman shouted. ‘Keep rowing!’
For a moment there was no further sign of the French soldiers, and then the more stout-hearted of them showed themselves along the quay again and took aim on the retreating boats. Shots slapped into the water close by, sending up narrow spouts of silver into the salty air. But the range was already long and within a minute the lusty strokes of the men at the oars had carried the launch to safety. Arthur felt the tension and fear begin to drain from his body as he turned to stare back towards Copenhagen and the tricolour flag waving over the heads of the French soldiers as they hurled insults after their enemy.
Even though the operation had been a success and the Danish fleet was on its way to Britain, he could not help feeling a sense of failure. Once again a British army had secured a small foothold on the continent, only to have to give it up. As long as that remained the pattern of the conflict, Britain would never defeat Bonaparte. As he stared at the enemy flag, swaying defiantly from side to side, Arthur made a resolution. The instant he returned to London he would do whatever he could to persuade the government to commit itself to a full-blooded campaign on the continent. It was only through such action that Britain could begin to topple the edifice of Bonaparte’s vast empire.
Chapter 38
Napoleon
Paris, December 1807
The Emperor sat at his desk, hands folded together and supporting his chin as he stared into the middle distance. It was the day after Christmas, yet he felt not the slightest inclination to share the festive mood of the rest of his household and the people of Paris. Before him, on the desk, lay the report from General Junot, detailing his operation in Portugal. Despite marching across Spain and through Portugal with commendable speed, Junot’s corps had captured Lisbon only to discover that the royal family, the government and the warships of the Portuguese navy had fled to their colonies in Brazil just two days before. They had quit the capital so swiftly that they had abandoned on the quayside scores of wagons carrying chests of gold and silver, works of art, linen, dinner services and fine furnishings from the palace. None of which compensated for the loss of the fine ships of the Portuguese navy, Napoleon reflected ruefully.
Now that he had lost the chance of seizing both the Danish and the Portuguese fleets there was no chance of redressing the imbalance in naval power that had existed between France and Britain since the disaster at Cape Trafalgar. The only hope of defeating Britain now lay in the full implementation of the closure of European ports to British trade and British vessels.
Napoleon let out an explosive, exasperated sigh. He rose abruptly to his feet and crossed over to the long windows overlooking the courtyard of the Tuileries and the open square beyond. A thin veil of snow had descended on Paris the night before and much of it had been trampled into the cobblestones during the morning so that the streets looked peculiarly grimy compared to the gleaming white mantles that covered the roofs of the capital. Overhead the sky was filled with thick grey clouds that wholly obscured the sun and threatened further snow. Down in the square a large crowd of street urchins were engaged in a snowball fight and their shouts and shrill cries of laughter carried faintly through the glass as Napoleon gazed down. He felt a brief twinge of envy as he watched them.
A memory flashed into his mind and he recalled a time when he had led a team of students in a snowball fight at the school he had attended in Brienne. A smile flickered across his lips. That had been a fine day. One of the few pleasurable days he recalled from a childhood spent far from his family; a lone Corsican amongst a crowd of haughty and wealthy boys from the finest families in France. At times they had made his life a torment. And now he was their Emperor. Fate played peculiar games, Napoleon mused. Yet despite all his power and all that he had achieved, he fervently wished that he could be an anonymous young boy once more and run across the square and join those engaged in the snowball fight, heedless of the duties and burdens of his office. The thought filled his heart with an aching sense of loss as he looked at the children and he felt his throat tighten.