Inferno (12 page)

‘Hmmph. Secretary of State for War?'

Castlereagh wasted no time outlining his views. ‘In fine, we have a stalemate. At sea we are peerless and unconquerable. On land Bonaparte stands invincible. Only if he puts to sea to try conclusions with us, which I very much doubt he will do, or on the other hand we make landing with an army to match his millions, which I equally doubt, will there be any chance of resolution. This is the essence of the situation – a stalemate.

‘Yet with this Continental System he seeks to break the impasse and take the war to a different dimension. It's now a species of trade war, of economical contention, and I fear one we are sore pressed to counter. Europe is near cut off to our exporting, bar some contemptible smuggling, but should
things turn even more against us we lose, in addition, our vital imports of materials for industry. Frankly, I confess I cannot see any way in the military line out of this situation.'

His words hung in an uncomfortable silence until Perceval said heavily, ‘In course this is not to be accepted.'

Canning's response was immediate. ‘Not to be? My dear sir, it
has
to be accepted, for this is where we are, and no amount of—'

‘Sir!' Perceval retorted. ‘Tolerating a state of impotence is not to be countenanced. And why? Let me detail it for you. The raw materials market now closed to us has consequences that set us on a downward spiral to oblivion as a nation. There is—'

‘We all know this, Perceval. When—'

‘Let me finish! We were lately in prodigious growth, our industries propelled by steam power and machines producing goods in quantities that the world marvels at. Without markets it's as nothing to us. In my tour of the north there were howls of anguish from the merchantry. I saw ironmasters ruined, manufactories silent, the working masses turned away at the gates to penury, a sight may I say to wring the hardest of hearts, sir.

‘And I appeal to you, where is now the revenue to continue the war? At ruinous expense we maintain our far-flung navy and its dockyards, the army must prepare for any assault on these islands and—'

‘Hold, sir!' Canning interrupted. ‘Are you saying you'll have us put down our arms? Cravenly yield to the tyrant?'

Perceval breathed deeply. ‘His Grace wishes a summation of my views. I shall continue. And it is to say that there is an even worse prospect that looms larger as we procrastinate. I point to the situation where France within the Continental
System has complete and unfettered control of the markets. What, then, of us? Europe, sir, is turning by degrees into a captive marketplace for French goods alone.'

He paused significantly. ‘Then later, at any peace, we will see all our customers lost to the French. Without exports to pay for our imports we will face ruination, sir. It will then be far too late for idle discussion.'

Portland harrumphed, then said weakly, ‘It does seem that time is not on our side. I put it to all of you that we must decide on a course of action that can break this stranglehold. I beg I might hear of some suggestions.'

Castlereagh sighed. ‘A hardening of our orders-in-council against neutral shipping and the like in reply to Boney's decree risks upsetting any remaining uncommitted nations, the United States in particular. It would be a blow indeed to see them ally with the French as they did back in the American war, do you not agree?'

‘What other instruments have we to hand in a trade war?' Canning rapped. ‘Only the navy is active in this matter, and to tie its hands …'

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, do remember your dignity. What is needed now are answers, not difficulties. Now, is there among you any constructive line of thought that can be brought to bear?'

As the room erupted into an ill-tempered babble, Canning gave a twisted smile. ‘Well, there is one thing that is on our side. With the Whigs in such disarray we've little to be feared from the floor of the House. We've some small space to arrive at a decisive solution …'

Portland ignored the barely concealed contempt at his handling of the parliamentary opposition, and declared loftily, ‘Well, it can hardly be worse for us, now, can it?'

T
he maître d'hôtel of the Hotel Tilžê primped his moustache and looked out over the packed dining room with swelling satisfaction. The little town of the Teutonic Knights, now a modest spa resort on the southern Baltic, had been thrust into an astonishing prominence by the workings of Fate, sudden shifts of destiny in the world of war reaching even as far as there, and who was he to question it?

What was incredible was one simple fact: they had been spared.

Prussia, aided by young Alexander, Tsar of Russia, had dared to defy Napoleon Bonaparte but had been halted at the blood-soaked battlefield of Eylau earlier in the year. From there Emperor Bonaparte had thrust his army, like a sword, through the vitals of Prussia and even into the ancient lands of east Prussia, an unstoppable juggernaut.

They'd trembled for their safety as news and rumours of the approaching French host had flooded in – but had bravely cheered Count von Bennigsen as he marched across the
border to confront them with some ninety thousand men and hundreds of guns.

It had not been enough. Even with King Friedrich falling back to his last redoubt, Königsberg, at the extremity of Prussian territory, the French had pressed hard against his desperate resistance.

And only three weeks ago, no more than fifty miles away at Friedland, the two armies had come together in a titanic clash, which had finally ended after twenty hours of desperate hacking. The chaotic rout and slaughter of the Russian Army had left nearly fifty thousand bodies carpeting the battlefield. Terrified, the townsfolk had prepared for the inevitable, but it was not to be. Bonaparte, in his wisdom and mercy, had halted the advance and granted a general armistice.

Then the rumours started: it was for a reason, a world-changing purpose that had as its objective the forging of a continent-sized empire. This was nothing less than a meeting of emperors to determine the fate of the civilised world. Tsar Alexander of Russia would stand face to face with Emperor Bonaparte of France as equals to cease the useless bloodshed and decide the destiny of nations for centuries to come.

And all this was to take place in Tilsit, beside the Neman River between Prussia and the quaint old medieval Duchy of Lithuania, under Russian dominance since the dismembering of Poland in 1795.

It was a stupefying change of fortune for the town.

The Tsar was processing from Russia with his nobles and court. Coming from the opposite direction the newly victorious Emperor Bonaparte would arrive to stand at the banks of the Neman in recognition of the limit of his conquered territories, with his staff and generals, and who knew how many followers?

That meant a gratifying number of nobles and ladies, statesmen and grandees, all needing accommodation and entertainment at what better establishment than the Hotel Tilžê?

His ransack of the champagne and fine wines, caviar and
foie gras
from far and wide was paying off handsomely as notables gathered for the greatest spectacle of the age. In the dining salon before him were the cream of the nobility of central Europe, generals and ambassadors. If he could maintain standards, there was a fortune to be made.

The maître d'hôtel surveyed the busy scene again. In yet another stroke of luck, he'd been able to procure the services of a first-class head waiter, Meyen, a Polish Jew recently fled from Königsberg. He was a born professional, working the tables with attention and poise that was neither intrusive nor fawning. When this affair was over, he would most certainly see to it that Meyen found a secure position at the hotel.

‘Do you recommend the duck at all, my dear Meyen?'

‘If your ladyship craves adventure,' the head waiter answered, with a roguish smile. This was the flirtatious Helga, Countess of Hesse-Darmstadt. He happened to know she was in an affair with General Gülstorff, sitting opposite, who had managed with desperate heroism to extricate himself and his cavalry from the field after Friedland.

Meyen leaned past her to align the silver cutlery to perfection and heard them resume their conversation in German.

‘When can we get away, Hans? It's been so long.'

‘Not now. There's a dispatch due, telling us whether we give ground on Hanover or not.'

He looked up suddenly at Meyen who returned a glassy smile of incomprehension and went on with his rearranging.

‘This whole thing is a catastrophe from start to finish. I swear that if Bonaparte asks for the crown we'll have to give it him.'

Interesting.

Meyen withdrew with every expression of politeness and threaded through the room, ignoring other diners with practised ease to arrive at the table of Marshal Kuril, the Russian soldier who had arrived too late to make any difference to the crushing of the remnants of Tsar Alexander's imperial ambitions. The occupants were sunk in the deepest gloom, and Kuril's wife sat rigidly, letting her husband mutter on at his loyal adjutant.

Meyen carefully took position behind the marshal, order pad and polite smile at the ready. In their dejection he wasn't noticed and his expatriate Russian was quite adequate to catch the drift of what was being said: it was the considered opinion of Kuril that if Alexander failed in his confrontation with Napoleon he would most certainly suffer assassination, like his father, Tsar Paul.

It was a rich haul he was getting from this concentration of the highest as they feverishly discussed the fateful meeting to come. His paymaster would no doubt be accordingly grateful.

T
he muffled sound of a military band ceased. French soldiers with gleaming sabres lined the main street as jingling cavalry with glittering breast-plates passed down it, a brave and shocking sight. On the other bank, stolid lines of Russian soldiers spread out and a column of Cossack cavalry, resplendent in red with fierce black moustaches, took up their positions.

There was no doubt now that this day would be touched by history. In the precise centre of the river was a pavilion on a broad raft, gorgeously emblazoned with pennons and every detail of chivalry, signifying that this meeting of emperors would take place on impeccably neutral territory.

The stage was set: let the drama begin.

Meyen, careful to hang back a little, joined the throng that jostled at the windows of the hotel, trying to get a glimpse from the high balcony of the epochal meeting.

On the French side there was a swirl in the crowd – a carriage! It could only be …

The man who had set the world ablaze, who had wrested
for himself an emperor's crown and who now stood astride the continent, like a colossus, was handed down, bowing this way and that to the gathered nobles of a dozen countries. In white breeches and waistcoat, a dark coat with the splash of gold epaulettes, a single light-blue sash and knee-length black military boots, there was no mistaking Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte.