Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (49 page)

“Oh, yes! I remember.” There was a silence of some moments while Strange considered this. “Arabella!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Do you mean to tell me that you have still not learnt his name?” He began to laugh.

Arabella looked annoyed. “It is not my fault,” she said. “He has never said his name and I have never remembered to ask him. But I am glad you take it so lightly. I thought at one time that you were inclined to be jealous.”

“I do not remember that I was.”

“How odd! I remember it quite distinctly.”

“I beg your pardon, Arabella, but it is difficult to be jealous of a man whose acquaintance you made a number of years ago and whose name you have yet to discover. So he approves of my work, does he?”

“Yes, he has often told me that you will never get anywhere until you begin to study fairies. He says that that is what true magic is — the study of fairies and fairy magic.”

“Indeed? He seems to have very decided views upon the subject! And what, pray, does he know about it? Is he a magician?”

“I do not think so. He once declared that he had never read a book upon the subject in his life.”

“Oh! He is one of those, is he?” said Strange, contemptuously. “He has not studied the subject at all, but has managed to devise a great many theories about it. I meet with that sort very often. Well, if he is not a magician, what is he? Can you at least tell me that?”

“I think I can,” said Arabella in the pleased manner of someone who has made a very clever discovery.

Strange sat expectantly.

“No,” said Arabella, “I will not tell you. You will only laugh at me again.”

“Probably.”

“Well, then,” said Arabella after a moment, “I believe he is a prince. Or a king. He is certainly of royal blood.”

“What in the world should make you think that?”

“Because he has told me a great deal of his kingdoms and his castles and his mansions — though I confess they all have very odd names and I never heard of a single one before. I think he must be one of the princes that Buonaparte deposed in Germany or Swisserland.”

“Indeed?” said Strange, with some irritation. “Well, now that Buonaparte has been defeated, perhaps he would like to go home again.”

None of these half-explanations and guesses concerning the gentleman with the thistle-down hair quite satisfied him and he continued to wonder about Arabella’s friend. The following day (which was to be the Strange’s last in London) he walked to Sir Walter’s office in Whitehall with the express intention of discovering who the fellow was.

But when Strange arrived, he found only Sir Walter’s private secretary hard at work.

“Oh! Moorcock! Good morning! Has Sir Walter gone?”

“He has just gone to Fife House,
⁵
Mr Strange. Is there any thing I can do for you?”

“No, I do not … Well, perhaps. There is something I always mean to ask Sir Walter and I never remember. I don’t suppose that you are at all acquainted with the gentleman who lives at his house?”

“Whose house, sir?”

“Sir Walter’s.”

Mr Moorcock frowned. “A gentleman at Sir Walter’s house? I cannot think whom you mean. What is his name?”

“That is what I wish to know. I have never seen the fellow, but Mrs Strange always seems to meet him the moment she steps out of the house. She has known him for years yet she has never been able to discover his name. He must be a very eccentric sort of person to make such a secret of it. Mrs Strange always calls him the gentleman with the silvery nose or the gentleman with the snow-white complexion. Or some odd name of that sort.”

But Mr Moorcock only looked even more bewildered at this information. “I am very sorry, sir. I do not think I can ever have seen him.”

40
“Depend upon it; there is no such place.”

June 1815

The Emperor Napoleon Buonaparte had been banished to the island of Elba. However His Imperial Majesty had some doubts whether a quiet island life would suit him — he was, after all, accustomed to governing a large proportion of the known world. And so before he left France he told several people that when violets bloomed again in spring he would return. This promise he kept.

The moment he arrived upon French soil he gathered an army and marched north to Paris in further pursuit of his destiny, which was to make war upon all the peoples of the world. Naturally he was eager to re-establish himself as
Emperor
, but it was not yet known where he would chuse to be Emperor
of
. He had always yearned to emulate Alexander the Great and so it was thought that he might go east. He had invaded Egypt once before and had some success there. Or he might go west: there were rumours of a fleet of ships at Cherbourg ready and waiting to take him to America to begin the conquest of a fresh, new world.

But wherever he chose, everyone agreed that he was sure to begin by invading Belgium and so the Duke of Wellington went to Brussels to await the arrival of Europe’s Great Enemy.

The English newspapers were full of rumours: Buonaparte had assembled his army; he was advancing with appalling swiftness upon Belgium; he was there; he was victorious! Then the next day it would appear that he was still in his palace in Paris, never having stirred from there in the first place.

At the end of May, Jonathan Strange followed Wellington and the Army to Brussels. He had spent the past three months quietly in Shropshire thinking about magic and so it was hardly surprizing that he should feel a little bewildered at first. However after he had walked about for an hour or two he came to the conclusion that the fault was not in him, but in Brussels itself. He knew what a city at war looked like, and this was not it. There ought to have been companies of soldiers passing up and down, carts with supplies, anxious-looking faces. Instead he saw fashionable-looking shops and ladies lounging in smart carriages. True, there were groups of officers everywhere, but none of them appeared to have any idea of pursuing military business (one was expending a great deal of concentration and effort in mending a toy parasol for a little girl). There was a great deal more laughter and gaiety than seemed quite consistent with an imminent invasion by Napoleon Buonaparte.

A voice called out his name. He turned and found Colonel Manningham, an acquaintance of his, who immediately invited Strange to go with him to Lady Charlotte Greville’s house. (This was an English lady who was living in Brussels.) Strange protested that he had no invitation and anyway he ought to go and look for the Duke. But Manningham declared that the lack of an invitation could not possibly matter — he was sure to be welcome — and the Duke was just as likely to be in Lady Charlotte Greville’s drawing-room as anywhere else.

Ten minutes later Strange found himself in a luxurious apartment filled with people, many of whom he already knew. There were officers; beautiful ladies; fashionable gentlemen; British politicians; and representatives, so it seemed, of every rank and degree of British peer. All of them were loudly discussing the war and making jokes about it. It was quite a new idea to Strange: war as a fashionable amusement. In Spain and Portugal it had been customary for the soldiers to regard themselves as martyred, maligned and forgotten. Reports in the British newspapers had always endeavoured to make the situation sound as gloomy as possible. But here in Brussels it was the noblest thing in the world to be one of his Grace’s officers — and the second noblest to be his Grace’s magician.

“Does Wellington really want all these people here?” whispered Strange to Manningham in amazement. “What will happen if the French attack? I wish I had not come. Someone is sure to begin asking me about my disagreement with Norrell, and I really do not want to talk about it.”

“Nonsense!” Manningham whispered back. “No one cares about that here! And anyway here is the Duke!”

There was a little bustle and the Duke appeared. “Ah, Merlin!” he cried as his eye lighted upon Strange. “I am very glad to see you! Shake hands with me! You are acquainted with the Duke of Richmond, of course. No? Then allow me to make the introduction!”

If the assembly had been lively before, how much more spirited it became now his Grace was here! All eyes turned in his direction to discover whom he was talking to and (more interesting still) whom he was flirting with. One would not have supposed to look at him that he had come to Brussels for any other reason than to enjoy himself. But every time Strange tried to move away, the Duke fixed him with a look, as if to say, “No,
you
must stay. I have need of you!” Eventually, still smiling, he inclined his head and murmured in Strange’s ear, “There, I believe that will do. Come! There is a conservatory at the other end of the room. We will be out of the crowd there.”

They took their seats amid the palms and other exotic plants.

“A word of warning,” said the Duke. “This is not Spain. In Spain the French were the detested enemy of every man, woman and child in the country. But here matters stand quite differently. Buonaparte has friends in every street and in a great many parts of the Army. The city is full of spies. And so it is our job — yours and mine — to look as if nothing in the world were more certain than his defeat! Smile, Merlin! Take some tea. It will steady your nerves.”

Strange tried a careless smile, but it immediately turned itself into an anxious frown and so, to draw his Grace’s attention away from the deficiencies of his face, he inquired how his Grace liked the Army.

“Oh! It is a bad army at best. The most miscellaneous Army I ever commanded. British, Belgians, Dutch and Germans all mixed up together. It is like trying to build a wall out of half a dozen materials. Each material may be excellent in its way, but one cannot help wondering if the thing will hold together. But the Prussian Army has promised to fight with us. And Blücher is an excellent old fellow. Loves a fight.” (This was the Prussian General.) “Unfortunately, he is also mad. He believes he is pregnant.”

“Ah!”

“With a baby elephant.”

“Ah!”

“But we must put you to work straightaway! Have you your books? Your silver dish? A place to work? I have a strong presentiment that Buonaparte will appear first in the west, from the direction of Lille. It is certainly the way I would chuse and I have letters from our friends in that city assuring me that he is hourly expected there. That is your task. Watch the western border for signs of his approach and tell me the instant you catch a glimpse of French troops.”

For the next fortnight Strange summoned up visions of places where the Duke thought the French might appear. The Duke provided him with two things to help him: a large map and a young officer called William Hadley-Bright.

Hadley-Bright was one of those happy men for whom Fortune reserves her choicest gifts. Everything came easily to him. He was the adored only child of a rich widow. He had wanted a military career; his friends had got him a commission in a fashionable regiment. He had wanted excitement and adventure; the Duke of Wellington had chosen him to be one of his
aides-de-camp
. Then, just as he had decided that the one thing he loved more than soldiering was English magic, the Duke had appointed him to assist the sublime and mysterious Jonathan Strange. But only persons of a particularly sour disposition could resent Hadley-Bright’s success; everyone else was disarmed by his cheerfulness and good nature.

Day after day Strange and Hadley-Bright examined ancient fortified cities in the west of Belgium; they peered at dull village streets; they watched vast, empty vistas of fields beneath even vaster prospects of watercolour clouds. But the French did not appear.

On a hot, sticky day in the middle of June they were seated at this interminable task. It was about three o’clock. The waiter had neglected to remove some dirty coffee-cups and a fly buzzed around them. From the open window came the mingled odours of horse-sweat, peaches and sour milk. Hadley-Bright, perched on a dining-chair, was demonstrating to perfection one of the most important skills of a soldier — that of falling asleep under any circumstances and at any time.

Strange glanced at his map and chose a spot at random. In the water of his silver dish a quiet crossroads appeared; nearby was a farm and two or three houses. He watched for a moment. Nothing happened. His eyes closed and he was on the point of dozing off when some soldiers dragged a gun into position beneath some elmtrees. They had a rather businesslike air. He kicked Hadley-Bright to wake him up. “Who are those fellows?” he asked.

Hadley-Bright blinked at the silver dish.

The soldiers at the crossroads wore green coats with red facings. There suddenly seemed to be a great many of them.

“Nassauers,” said Hadley-Bright, naming some of Wellington’s German troops. “The Prince of Orange’s boys. Nothing to worry about. What are you looking at?”

“A crossroads twenty miles south of the city. A place called Quatre Bras.”

“Oh! There is no need to spend time on that!” declared Hadley-Bright with a yawn. “That is on the road to Charleroi. The Prussian Army is at the other end of it — or so I am told. I wonder if those fellows are supposed to be there?” He began to leaf through some papers describing the disposition of the various Allied armies. “No, I really don’t think …”

“And what is
that
?” interrupted Strange, pointing at a soldier in a blue coat who had appeared suddenly over the opposite rise with his musket at the ready.

There was the merest pause. “A Frenchman,” said Hadley-Bright.

“Is
he
supposed to be there?” asked Strange.

The one Frenchman had been joined by another. Then fifty more appeared. The fifty became two hundred — three hundred — a thousand! The hillside seemed to be breeding Frenchmen as a cheese breeds maggots. The next moment they all began to discharge their muskets upon the Nassauers at the crossroads. The engagement did not last long. The Nassauers fired their cannons. The Frenchmen, who appeared to have no cannons of their own, retreated over the hill.

“Ha!” cried Strange, delighted. “They are beaten! They have run away!”

“Yes, but where did they come from in the first place,” muttered Hadley-Bright. “Can you look over that hill?”

Strange tapped the water and made a sort of twisting gesture above the surface. The crossroads vanished and in its place appeared an excellent view of the French Army — or, if not the whole Army, a very substantial part of it.

Hadley-Bright sat down like a marionette whose strings have been cut. Strange swore in Spanish (a language he naturally associated with warfare). The Allied armies were in entirely the wrong place. Wellington’s divisions were in the west, ready to defend to the death all sorts of places that Buonaparte had no intention of attacking. General Blücher and the Prussian army were too far east. And here was the French Army suddenly popping up in the south. As matters stood at present, these Nassauers (who amounted to perhaps three or four thousand men) were all that lay between Brussels and the French.

“Mr Strange! Do something, I implore you!” cried Hadley-Bright.

Strange took a deep breath and opened wide his arms, as though he were gathering up all the magic he had ever learnt.

“Hurry, Mr Strange! Hurry!”

“I could move the city!” said Strange. “I could move Brussels! I could put it somewhere where the French will not find it.”

“Put it where?” cried Hadley-Bright, grabbing Strange’s hands and forcing them down again. “We are surrounded by armies. Our own armies! If you move Brussels you are liable to crush some of our regiments under the buildings and the paving stones. The Duke will not be pleased. He needs every man.”

Strange thought some more. “I have it!” he cried.

A sort of breeze rushed by. It was not unpleasant — indeed it had the refreshing fragrance of the ocean. Hadley-Bright looked out of the windows. Beyond the houses, churches, palaces and parks were mountain-ridges that had not been there a moment ago. They were black, as if covered with pine trees. The air was much fresher — like air that had never been breathed before.

“Where are we?” asked Hadley-Bright.

“America,” said Strange. And then by way of an explanation he added, “It always looks so empty on the maps.”

“Dear God! But this is no better than before! Have you forgotten that we have only just signed a peace treaty with America? Nothing will excite the Americans’ displeasure so much as the appearance of a European city on their soil!”

“Oh, probably! But there is no need for concern, I assure you. We are a long way from Washington or New Orleans or any of those places where the battles were. Hundreds of miles I expect. At least … That is to say I am not sure where exactly. Do you think it matters?”
¹

Hadley-Bright dashed outside to find the Duke and tell him that, contrary to what he might have supposed, the French were now in Belgium, but he, the Duke, was not.

His Grace (who happened to be taking tea with some British politicians and Belgian countesses) received the news in his customary imperturbable fashion. But half an hour later he appeared in Strange’s hotel with the Quartermaster General, Colonel De Lancey. He stared down at the vision in the silver dish with a grim expression. “Napoleon has humbugged me, by God!” he exclaimed. “De Lancey, you must write the orders as quickly as you can. We must gather the Army at Quatre Bras.”

Poor Colonel De Lancey looked most alarmed. “But how do we deliver the orders to the officers with all the Atlantic between us?” he asked.

“Oh,” said his Grace, “Mr Strange will take care of that.” His eye was caught by something outside the window. Four horsemen were passing by. They had the bearing of kings and the expressions of emperors. Their skin was the colour of mahogany; their long hair was the shiny jet-black of a raven’s wing. They were dressed in skins decorated with porcupine quills. Each was equipped with a rifle in a leather case, a fearsome-looking spear (as feathered as their heads) and a bow. “Oh, and De Lancey! Find someone to ask those fellows if they would like to fight tomorrow, would you? They look as if they could do the business.”