Chapter 22: Gang aft aglay

Bands played, flags fluttered, and crowds cheered as I marched proudly along the Avenida Avenue Andalucía at the head of my battalion. It was the 1st of October 1823. Cadiz had surrendered a week previously and the French Royal Army now made a formal, triumphant, entrance. That the citizens were cheering was surprising, as I doubt there were any monarchists lining the streets, but supposed even the most ardent of republicans were thankful the daily cannonade was now at an end.

The columns of marching men swung past the platform where the Commander of the Royal Army, the Duke of Angoulême, stood at the salute. Standing behind him were the Corps commanders, every one of them a Marshal of France. However, in the prominent place of honour, alongside the Duke, stood Brigadier General Marcel Defarge, his face wreathed in an unaccustomed smile of delight. He had good reason for his pleasure.

The Foreign Brigade had been the cutting edge of the Royal Army.

They had first assisted the passage through the Pyrenees of Moncey’s IV Corps, who were still besieging Barcelona. Next, the brigade spearheaded the advance on Madrid, clearing the way for Lauristen’s V and Oudinot’s I Corps to invest, then enter the city. At Campillo de Arenas it was the flank attack carried out by the brigade that gave victory to Molitor’s II Corps. Finally, the successful storming of the fortresses of Trocadero and San Pedro at Cadiz proved their worth, and the Foreign Brigade was now rightfully considered an elite unit.

The total casualties of the French army had numbered slightly less than 1000 men killed and wounded, but a third of the number were from the Foreign Brigade. Eliteness comes at a price.

Fortunately, men from a recently disbanded battalion of the Hohenlohe Regiment had arrived, on the day Cadiz surrounded, to replace the fallen men of the Foreign Brigade.

After the parade I bid a farewell to my men, handing over command to Major Philippe de Trobriand, a well experienced, professional, soldier.

“Good bye, Jack. If we meet again I hope it will not be on opposing sides of a battlefield.” Fritz Lang said as he shook my hand.

“No chance of that, Fritz. My soldiering days are over. After completing my task in Livorno I shall retire from the army and marry.”

Because of the situation in Cadiz, no shipping had entered the port for several months. The South American convoy that arrives in early August was forced to unload in Cueta, a Spanish enclave in North Africa, where the cargo was transferred to the many vessels eagerly awaiting the imports of coffee, timber, slaves, and White Lady. Consequently, there were no Italian shipping available in Cadiz, and I booked passage on the French supply vessel Topaz, which was returning to its home port of Marseilles.

I had completed my packing, and was preparing for an early night, as Topaz would be leaving on the morning ebb tide, when there came a knock on the door. I opened it to see Brigadier Defarge, obviously well into his cups, with a huge grin on his face and a bottle of brandy in his hand.

“English, I could not let you leave without paying my respects.”

He swayed into the room and sat down heavily in a chair by the table.

After placing the bottle carefully on the table he took two goblets from out of his tunic pocket. With the infinite care of someone who had imbibed a quantity of alcohol he poured two measures. We raised our glasses.

“Bottoms up, and no heel taps,” he said, and down his throat in a twinkling went the glass of Armagnac, the brigadier s brandy of choice. I emptied my glass much slower, and he had quaffed another before I had fully finished mine.

“You will be making for England, home, and beauty, no doubt, English?”

I explained I was returning to Livorno, via Marseilles, and then asked him where the Foreign Brigade would next be deployed. His answer, ‘Cueta’, utterly surprised me, which he saw plain as day on my face.

“One of the reasons Good King Louis helped his cousin Bad King Ferdinand regain his throne.” Defarge said. “Louis has aspirations of an overseas empire – and has decided to start in North Africa.”

“The French intend taking over Spanish territory in North Africa?” I said, incredulity in my voice.

He shook his head. “No, nothing as blatant as that. The Foreign Brigade will ostensibly be chasing down republicans who have fled Spain. In the pursuit of such malcontents into the lands of the Caliph of Morocco it will be necessary to create strong points and forts. Before the Caliph realises it France will annex his territory, and then move eastwards along the coast.”

He poured himself another glass. of brandy. “So you can inform the men in Horse Guards the reason for the establishment of the Foreign Brigade is to seize foreign territory, and then bring it under French control.”

I pondered this information, and then asked an obvious question.

“Why not use existing French regiments for the task?”

He got from his seat and walked about the room while answering.

“There are thousands of foreigners serving in French regiments, and the government wants them all in one corps...”

“But surely the Hohenlohe Regiment would be the obvious corps to place all these foreigners?”

“The Hohenlohe regiment is in process of being disbanded. Its loyalty to the Crown is in question. Most of the men comprising the regiment were enlisted during the Hundred Days, when Napoleon was raising foreign regiments at a tremendous rate. The powers that be in our War Department think a Foreign Brigade consisting entirely of men who fought for Napoleon too much of a threat. However, if mingled with men who fought against Napoleon, like your Hanoverian comrades, and Prussians, Russians, and the like, then an esprit de corps could be formed which puts the allegiance to the corps above crown or country.”

I could see the sense in the idea. In fact, the Foreign Brigade already had forged a unique sense of identity, and the sort of cohesion only found in elite, special, units.

“When I was given the task of raising the Brigade I ensured each man first gave his oath of allegiance to the Brigade before swearing allegiance to the king and to France,” said Defarge. “As long as the Brigade is commanded by loyal Frenchmen the Foreign Brigade will not be subverted, or contaminated by outside interests, at least that is the theory.”

“And are all officers of the Foreign Brigade loyal to the French King?” I said.

“We are professional soldiers, whose loyalty is to France.” His answer brooked no further discussion on that particular subject.

“Well, English, have you any more questions before we finish this bottle and I bid you farewell?”

There had been one question troubling me for quite some time, and I reasoned Defarge was probably the best man I knew to give an answer.

“Tell me, General Defarge, why did Napoleon Bonaparte invade Egypt?”

During the previous discussion, Defarge had been on his feet, gesticulating to make his point as only a Frenchman could. He now sat down, a look of astonishment on his face.

“Your question is completely unexpected.” He rubbed his chin, and then repeated my question quietly to himself. ‘Why did Napoleon Bonaparte invade Egypt?’

“Why indeed? I was a lowly lieutenant in those days, English, and not privy to the thoughts of the great man. I doubt anyone other than himself could correctly answer your question. Although of course the official version is the Directory ordered him to Egypt, but you can be sure he would not have absented himself from France merely because of orders from men he despised. I know it was put about by you English it was a stepping stone on the way for the French to seize India, but any fool could see that was merely an excuse for the English to invade the lands of Tipu Sultan. The only way Bonaparte could reach India from Egypt was by sailing down the Red Sea, and even before our fleet was destroyed by Nelson there was no possibility of getting it from the Mediterranean to the Red Sea, other than by portage or digging a canal, both of which were out of the question.”

He poured himself another measure of brandy. “In any case our army was not large enough to defeat the Mamluks in Egypt, hold on to the captured territory, and also despatch a force large enough to defeat the English in India”

“Did Bonaparte expect to find an Egyptian fleet in the Red Sea, and then seize the vessels and use them for transports to India?” I said.

Defarge shrugged. “Who knows what Bonaparte believed, although he probably believed himself Alexander the Great reborn. He may have hoped the Egyptians would also see him as the reincarnated Macedonian, and join him in conquering India. Unfortunately, they did not. Soon the whole place was a death trap, with Bonaparte deserting his army and leaving Kléber to deal with the mess.”

“Yes, General, it must have been hell for the men left to rot in the burning deserts of Egypt.”

Defarge gazed sightlessly into his half-full glass.

“I thought I was in Hell when we marched across the Sinai desert towards Acre.” He grimaced in remembrance.

“It was even hotter when we returned with our tails between our legs in defeat. But Hell is not hot, English, Hell is frozen. Where an icy wind cuts through you, and wolves and Cossacks howl and kill, and men die in icy exhaustion. When our food ran out we ate the horses, when all the horsemeat was consumed we gnawed on the frozen flesh of our dead comrades. Hell holds no terrors for me. I have survived Hell.”

“The retreat from Moscow?” I said.

He nodded. “I was with Ney on the rear-guard. Had it not been for Michel Ney there would have been no survivors of the Retreat.”

He drained his glass. “And what did those cochons in Paris do to him, The Bravest of the Brave? They shot him as a traitor. His only crime was being in Bonaparte’s thrall, and being defeated at Waterloo.”

“Were you with Marshal Ney at Waterloo, General?”

“No, I was Grouchy’s assistant chief of staff, which is why I have this command.”

He saw the puzzlement on my face and explained.

“The royalists look kindly on Grouchy and his men. They believe he deliberately misinterpreted Bonaparte’s orders, and failed to prevent the Prussians marching to aid Wellington at Mont Saint Jean.”

“And did he?”

Defarge rose from his chair. “Marshal Grouchy followed his orders. Now, if you will excuse me, Jacques, I will make my farewell and leave you. Your questioning has brought back bad memories.”

I apologised for upsetting him, and after a fulsome handshake and a Gallic kiss on both cheeks, he left me alone to ponder on what he had said concerning the Foreign Brigade, Bonaparte in Egypt, the retreat from Moscow, and the actions of Marshal Grouchy.

I arrived back in Livorno on the 24th November 1823, my thirty-third birthday, and third anniversary of the deaths of my wife and family.

The journey had taken nearly seven weeks, with contrary winds, gales, and incompetent seamanship, making the journey one I would like to forget.

I had kicked my heels in Marseilles for over two weeks, seeking a vessel to carry me onwards to Genoa, and had seriously considered making my way from Marseilles, via the river Rhone, through the Belfort Gap, then down the River Rhine to Strasbourg. Then, using canals and the River Scheldt, reach Valenciennes before finally arriving at Château Blanchard and Mimi. I had made up my mind to retire from the army, marry Mimi, and settle down to a life of a gentleman farmer, or as much of a gentleman my peasant stock would allow.

Of course, it was but a passing fancy to leave the army without notifying my superiors. To act so precipitately could be considered desertion. My duty was first to inform Horse Guards of my intention of retiring from the army, then return to Livorno and inform the Tuscan authorities of the transfer of command of the Training Team, and position of Military Advisor to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, to Otto Blackmore. I would then await the official sanction from Horse Guards to retire. There was also the hundred and fifty gold sovereigns in Otto’s possession to consider. I could be sure the Treasury would be after me for repayment as soon as it was known I had quit my post.