Page 248 of The Armor of Light

On his return Wellington had asked Henry, earl of Shiring, to join his headquarters staff, as he had in Spain. Henry had agreed – it was more of an order than a request – and had asked to have Kit as his aide. ‘He’s a very capable young man,’ Henry had told the duke. ‘He started work in a mill at the age of seven, and by the time he was eighteen he was its manager.’

Henry told Kit that the duke had said: ‘That’s the kind of man I want.’

Today Kit had to take a message to the new commanding officer of the 107th Foot. He rode there in a rainstorm. While at the camp he took the opportunity to seek out his mother.

Sal was wearing men’s clothing. This was not a disguise, Kit knew. She was not trying to pass as a man. But trousers and waistcoats were more practical than dresses in an army camp. Many of the female camp followers dressed the same. Another advantage was that it distinguished them from prostitutes, so they did not have to deal with unwelcome advances.

She naturally asked him how soon the allies would invade France.‘Wellington hasn’t made up his mind,’ Kit said, which was the truth. ‘But I don’t think it’s many days away.’

Kit wished his mother would go home to England and safety, but he did not try to persuade her. She had decided to stand beside her man when he risked his life in battle, and Kit had to respect her choice. After all, he had done the same thing by joining up with Roger. Both couples would march into France with the army and be part of the attack on Bonaparte’s forces. He hoped they would all come back.

That was a depressing thought and he pushed it aside.

They were sitting in a tent, for shelter. A soldier came in and bought a pipeful of tobacco from Sal. When the man had gone, Kit said: ‘So you’re a tobacconist now?’

‘More than that,’ said Sal. ‘The men are confined to camp. Some of them break the rules, but not many – the punishment is flogging. So I walk into Brussels once a week. It takes me two hours to get there. I buy stuff the men can’t get in camp: not just tobacco, but writing materials, playing cards, oranges, English newspapers, that sort of thing. I sell it at double what I pay.’

‘They don’t mind the price?’

‘I tell them the truth: half of that is what it cost me, and the other half is my payment for walking six miles there and six miles back.’

Kit nodded. In any case, men were not quick to quarrel with his broad-shouldered mother.

The rain eased, and he said goodbye. He retrieved his horse and set off but he did not go straight back to headquarters. Roger’s artillery battery was only a mile away, and he rode there in the hope of seeing the man he loved. Officers were not confined to camp, so Roger might not be there.

However, Kit was in luck, and found Roger in a tent playing cards with some fellow officers – not surprisingly. He would probably askKit to lend him some money, as usual, and Kit would refuse, as usual.

Kit watched the game for a few hands, then Roger excused himself, put his money in his pocket, and left the table. They strolled away in a light drizzle. Kit told Roger about Sal’s enterprising business. ‘Remarkable woman, your mother,’ Roger said.

Kit agreed.

After a few minutes of walking on soggy ground, he got the feeling Roger was steering him in a particular direction. Sure enough, they passed through a patch of rough woodland and came to a derelict hut. Roger led the way inside.

There was only one door and no windows. The door was hanging off its hinges. Roger closed it and wedged it with a large stone. ‘In the unlikely event that anyone should try to come in, we’ll hear him shoving at the door in plenty of time to make ourselves respectable and pretend that we came in here to get out of the rain.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Kit, and then they kissed.

*

Wellington called a meeting of headquarters staff to review the latest intelligence. They gathered at Wellington’s rented house in the rue Royale and stood around a large map on the dining-room table. Outside the windows it was raining hard, as it had been for much of June. Kit was at the back of the group, struggling to see the map past the shoulders of taller men. The mood was tense. They were soon to clash with the most successful general of their time, perhaps of all time. By Kit’s count, Bonaparte had fought sixty battles and won fifty. He was a man to fear.

The French national army was divided into four and placed strategically to defend the country against invasions from north, east and south-east, and against a potential royalist insurrection in the south-west. For the British the important group was the Army of theNorth, defending a sixty-mile stretch of the border between Beaumont and Lille. ‘We estimate Bonaparte has 130,000 men,’ the head of intelligence said. ‘The nearest are roughly fifty miles from where we stand.’

The British and Dutch were spread over a huge area: they had to be, for the countryside to supply them with food for the men and forage for the horses. ‘Our strength is 107,000,’ the officer went on. ‘But our allies the Prussians, stationed south-east of us, are 123,000 strong.’

So, Kit thought, Bonaparte is outnumbered almost two to one. Kit had been a part of Wellington’s army for more than two years, and he knew that ‘Old Nosey’ always tried to fight with an advantage, and would rather retreat than risk a battle against the odds. This went a long way towards explaining his success.

Someone said: ‘What will Bonaparte’s strategy be?’

Wellington smiled. ‘While I was in Vienna I discussed that with a Bavarian field marshal, Prince Karl Philipp von Wrede, who fought on Napoleon’s side until a couple of years ago, when he defected. Von Wrede said that Bonaparte had told him: “I have no strategy. I never have a plan of campaign.” Bonaparte is an opportunist. The only thing you can predict is that he is unpredictable.’

That was no help, Kit thought. Of course he said nothing.

‘The Prussians would like to invade immediately,’ Wellington went on. ‘Blücher says he left his old pipe in Paris and he wants it back.’ The men around the duke chuckled. The seventy-two-year-old Prussian commander was likeably roguish. ‘The truth is that his government is short of money and wants to get the war over with, and his men are desperate to go home for the harvest. I would prefer to wait, but I don’t want to delay so long that Blücher’s men start to melt away. I have fobbed him off by promising we would attack in July.’

Kit welcomed the delay. He was in no hurry to fight another battle.He wanted to survive and return home and resume his old life, making machines for the cloth industry and sharing a bed with Roger. Anything could happen in a two-week postponement. Bonaparte could die. The French could surrender. There might be no more battles.

‘One more thing,’ said the intelligence officer. ‘Yesterday a patrol of the British 95th Rifles Regiment encountered a group of French Lancers south-west of here, which suggests they may cross the border and attack through Mons.’