Four Days in June. Iain Gale

his back with her hand, pressing her leg against his own; touching the forelock of his thick, dark hair; running a finger down the length of his side-whisker, ‘it is never in my purpose to cool your passion.’ She looked him straight in the eyes. Smiled at her handsome soldier.

      ‘Magdalene. You quite disarm me.’

      ‘Oh no, William,’ letting go again, turning away, then back to look at him. Shamming coyness. ‘It is quite the contrary. You know, when we were first introduced I was quite intimidated by you. You had taken Edinburgh by storm. The talk of the town. So dashing. My … rambling soldier.’ She giggled.

      ‘Magdalene. Please. I am a soldier. I am an officer. I do command men.’

      She smiled again. Through half-lowered lids. Played with the pale green silk bow of her low décolletage. ‘Well, then. Am I not also yours to command? Command me.’

      Of course he had been late for dinner. Had arrived flushed, unsettled. The crumpled necktie told its story. D’Alava had not minded. He had known De Lancey for some years now. They had served together against the French in the fight for his homeland. Had ridden together with their friend Wellington. He knew too that he had only recently been married. And at a time when this day might be your last on earth, there were surely more important matters than social punctuality. Besides, he enjoyed the Englishman’s company. And De Lancey, in turn, relished the lack of formality of d’Alava’s house. Had become used to its like in Spain. Was his own man. Hated the pomp of the court and the garrison officers’ mess. Preferred the relaxed atmosphere of campaign life, where one night might bring an inn for a billet, another an open field. And this was as close as he could find to it. This, and the unexpected joy and daily novelty of his life with Magdalene.

      ‘But William, tell me.’ The genial, balding Spaniard flashed his dark, almost black eyes at his old friend, grinned and took another sip of the heavy red wine which he had brought here in no little quantity, from his own estates in Navarre, when appointed Spain’s Ambassador in Brussels. ‘You of all men have the Duke’s confidence … even above me. How does he intend to deal with Bonaparte?’

      ‘You know, Miguel, as I do, that my Lord Wellington is never quick to explain what he intends on the battlefield. Why, in the campaign of Salamanca, you will well recall, he did not vouchsafe any plan of execution, even to Sir George Murray. He is expert, Miguel, at keeping us all in the dark with regard to his intentions. He will sit at table with the General Staff and fill their heads full of humbug as to their dispositions. And then, not twelve hours later, will instruct me to issue an order which will march the brigades in quite the opposite direction. What we do know is that when Bonaparte moves on to the offensive – as move he will – we, the British and our Dutch and Belgian allies, are his most likely target. We are merely waiting for him to play his hand. You know that when the Peer met with Prince Blü cher last month it was agreed that the two armies should support each other and that the crucial axis of communication was to be the road from the Prussian army – at Sombreffe – to ourselves, around Nivelles.’

      ‘Yes. Of course, William. I am well aware of all this. But what will he do, d’you suppose? The “monster”, as all your pretty ladies here in Brussels like to call him. Wellington is obsessed, is he not, with the idea that Bonaparte intends to turn his right flank – to cut his communications and his escape route to the sea, at Antwerp? But what, William, if he is wrong? I think that your line is too extended. Let us say that he is wrong. That Blücher is the first to be attacked. Think of it. How will you ever move fast enough to help the Prussians? I do not think it can be done. And so…’ He made a forward gesture with his hands, as if pushing between two objects. ‘ … You are split in two by the French. And then …’ He clicked his fingers. ‘ … One …’ And again. ‘ … Two. I think that what we have here, my dear friend, is a simple conflict of interest. And I am wondering whether your good friends the Prussians – Prince Blücher and Count von Gneisenau – will share my opinion?’

      ‘Wellington will honour his word, Miguel. You know that. He will march to Blücher’s aid.’

      ‘But with what, William? With what? This army of twenty nations? If anyone is aware of the fine fighting quality of the British it is I. You and I, we remember Badajoz, Salamanca, Vitoria. But this army? Wellington himself has called it “infamous”. For every British soldier you have I hear that there are two Germans, Dutch or Belgians. Half of your army is German. Fine men of course, the King’s German Legion. They fought well in Spain. But William, what of the other Hanoverians? The militia? Peasants, farmers. And one third of your men are Netherlanders – most of whom, you will not deny, wearing the same uniforms with different hats and under different colours, were only a year ago fighting loyally for Bonaparte!’ He slammed his fist hard down on the table.

      De Lancey leaned forward in his chair. ‘I cannot deny what you say, Miguel. But let me apprise you of some other facts of which you may be unaware. At this moment we have 95,000 men in the field; the Prussians no less than 130,000. We have more cannon than in any previous campaign and no want of ammunition. Do you know that the Peer has been in command of his “infamous” army a good two months and that during that time he has been careful to reorganize? Do you know that in every division, save the Guards, the Duke has taken care to mix the British battalions with veteran redcoats of the German Legion? Do you know that even in the Guards’ division he has specifically commanded that the three younger battalions should be stiffened with one of old sweats from the Peninsula? Do you know that in every brigade which contains inexperienced British troops, fresh from the shires, he has placed proven battalions of German regulars? And do you know that he intends to keep any doubtful elements of Belgians and Dutch well in the rear? No, Miguel. This army is not quite the flummery you might suppose it to be.’ De Lancey sat back. Smiled. Sipped his wine.

      ‘William. Dear friend. Do not agitate yourself. Be sure that I have great faith in Wellington. But what I am concerned with is how he will use his force.’

      ‘That all depends upon Bonaparte. And we shall soon enough know that man’s intentions. You may know that for over a month now our friend Colonel Grant has been busy behind French lines gathering intelligence, just as he did so well in Spain. We know that Bonaparte has assembled a sizeable army – around 200,000 men. And that perhaps 125,000 of them are directly before us on the border. What we do not yet know is quite where they will attack. It might be at Mons. Or at Tournai. Or at Charleroi. Once we do know that, then will be our time to act.’

      ‘But Wellington, you know well, William, prefers to defend. That is his skill. And here is the problem, my friend. Prince Blücher – Marshal “Vorwärts” – likes to attack. It is all very fine for Wellington to draw his supplies from the coast. But Blücher must pay to supply his army. Can you imagine what it is costing him now, just to sit on his arse?’

      De Lancey, for once, was silent. Knew of old that this was mere teasing. That both men believed that their mutual friend, their commander, the hero of Spain, the toast of Europe, would be victorious. They were simply playing the same games that they had before every battle in Spain. Nevertheless the conversation had stirred some genuine worries, and it disturbed De Lancey to realize that he was concerned. He stared thoughtfully at his plate, took another sip of wine and, having considered his words, smiled before opening his mouth to reply.

      As he prepared to do so, the double doors of the dining room opened and d’Alava’s butler came quickly to the table and cupped his mouth to his master’s ear. D’Alava spoke. ‘It seems that you have a messenger, De Lancey.’ He grinned. ‘He has come … from your wife.’

      Spotless and gleaming, a young pink-cheeked British aide-de-camp was shown in, sword clattering, spurs ringing on the polished wooden floor. He handed De Lancey a note. D’Alava laughed and thumped the table with his fist.

      ‘So, my dear William. You see? You are away for only one hour and already your lovely wife has need of you. Ah, my friend. What it is to be young and in love.’

      De Lancey unfolded the piece of parchment. Read it quickly. Rose to his feet. Turned to the aide: ‘Wait.’ Then to d’Alava. ‘You are sadly mistaken, sen˜ or. I assure you, this is