Our Eternal Curse I (29 page)

The devastating news of Miss
Parks’s death left Robert completely disillusioned and depressed with the life
that seemed so full of hope such a short time before.  He muddled through as
best he could but nothing brought him out of his mournfulness.

The things that interested him
before now seemed mundane and boring.  He drifted into the role of a drunken
womanizer for no reason that any of his friends or masters could understand. 
He rarely turned up for rowing practice and never attended lectures.

Discarding responsibility
completely Robert began living from one day to the next.  Incredibly a life
that had seemed so promising now appeared so completely ruined and not even
Robert understood the forces that were tearing him apart.  In the year of 1812
the Deans of Kings College became completely fed up with Robert’s drunken
antics and his expulsion became inevitable.

One Monday morning, after a very
big weekend on the town, they asked him to leave before they were forced to
send him down.  Robert was not in any way surprised by their request as he had
been expecting it for some time and without giving it any deep thought Robert
simply enlisted as a lieutenant in the army bound for America.

His parents, Julia and her
parents were all devastated by the news of his hurried departure.  They did not
have a chance to try and talk him out of his rash decision because he had, in a
very cowardly way, left it up to Mr Woods to tell them that he had gone.

Julia never received a reply to
any of her letters and spent her time in deep and constant pain.  She loved
Robert so completely and found it hard to believe that the wonderful young man
she fell for at Cambridge could treat her in such a callous manner.

The ever-reliable Anton watched
his friends decline with great sadness.  He spent days talking with Robert in
his study trying to break the spell that had fallen so completely over him but
nothing could lift Robert from his depression and the decline of such a
wonderful person broke Anton’s heart.

At the moment Robert left
Cambridge to join his ship and his destiny Anton handed him a sealed envelope
saying as he wept tears of frustration and injustice:  “Here is the address of
my family.  Come to Rome one day, when Napoleon is defeated.”

Robert would have preferred to
do his fighting against the French but Napoleon had foolishly thrown his Grand
Army away in the Russian snow.  The war in the European theatre was very
unlikely to continue much longer.  As coincidence would have it Admiral
Nelson’s destruction of the French fleet in 1805 had given the British navy
complete control of the oceans and the power won at Trafalgar was being used to
blockade the American colonies.  Angered by their inability to trade freely,
the Americans declared war on the British for a second time.

Robert liked the idea of
reversing the outcome of the War of Independence, so he signed up for the
chance of a good fight across the Atlantic.

Taking a public carriage service
north to Liverpool, Robert spent a week in the taverns near the docks waiting
for his ship to depart.  There he sat each day drinking wine while
spontaneously striking up conversations with seamen of all nationalities.  It
was as though an instinct compelled him to ask questions whenever he sat near a
sailor, and this urge to find out about the things they carried across the sea
could not be contained.

As long as he paid for their ale
these men were happy to answer questions about the cargoes their ships carried,
where things were bought and sold, and how long various sea crossings took. 
Everything about this activity felt completely familiar, even the smells within
the strange taverns were remembered somewhere deep in Robert’s core.

When his ship eventually sailed
Robert experienced even more profound feelings of déjà vu during the voyage. 
It was as though he had made such a journey before.  All of the ship’s noises
were known to him, even the motion of the vessel under his feet inspired
memories, but the most peculiar thing of all was the vivid memory of making
this crossing with Julia.  Robert knew that the recollection was impossible
because neither he nor Julia had ever been out of England in their lives.

Even though there were
breathless days, Robert never let asthma get in the way of doing his duty and
from the moment of his very first battle Robert fought like a natural soldier. 
Seemingly fearless his brilliant understanding of tactics guaranteed him many
mentions in dispatches.

He was known by all as an
extremely hard but fair fighter who stood in the line with his redcoats to
receive the volley fire which killed hundreds of them.  All around him men were
hit by hot musket balls as they walked across the battle fields toward the
American positions, but nothing even grazed Robert.

Still unable to commit suicide
because of the shame this cowardly act would bring to the Pishiobury name,
Robert was determined to die in battle with honor and often ran ahead of his
men to present a better target to the enemy.  This course of action had a
strangely positive effect on the battle because the common soldiers had grown
to love their Captain, and his death wish merely spurred the men to keep up
with him.

The Americans knew that the
British always walked into battle, and they were unprepared for such radical
tactics, which resulted in many confrontations being won by the element of
surprise.

Consequently, Robert earned the
nickname Mad Bob and his life-threatening antics became legendary during his
thirty months in the American colonies.

At the end of the war, which the
British lost to the Americans completely for a second time, Robert and his
fellow officers were taken prisoner and put on trial for the many British
atrocities.  As bad luck would have it, he stood out as one of the few British
officers who did not condone war crimes.  The Americans knew that he had
punished his soldiers if they performed acts of savagery and their testimony
caused him to miss out on the chance of a quick death at the end of a rope.

Depressed by his inability to
end his grief, Robert traveled up into Canada with the idea of fighting in the
Indian wars.

While he waited for his regiment
to regroup for the march inland, Robert spent many weeks drinking and fighting
with the French trappers who resented the British imperial claim on Canada.

He rapidly gained a reputation
as a good bare-knuckle pugilist who made money for his drinking by holding
boxing matches with the trappers who had recently sold their beaver pelts.  The
fights went on until one or other could no longer stand and Robert won most of
the time.  This was not the sort of life that most well-to-do young men would
choose but Robert reconciled himself to his existence, because the physical
pain of boxing distracted him from the mental pain of living.

There can be no doubt that
Robert was rescued from an ignoble end by the recruiting officer for the 92nd
Gordon Highlanders who noticed him during a particularly bloody fight.  The big
bearded man dressed in his kilt helped clean Robert’s cuts as he told of
Napoleon’s escape from the island of Elba, and this information acted as a
catalyst which propelled Robert to changed his plans and book his passage to
Europe.

The first ship he could find out
of Quebec was bound for the port of Harwich on the south coast of England. 
After an uneventful but hauntingly familiar passage, his vessel came alongside
at the deep harbor port, which also happened to be the old home of Nelson’s
fleet.  Robert was just one day’s ride from Pishiobury but didn’t give a
thought to returning home to see his parents.  He loved them of course but he
believed that they would no longer love him, how could they?  After all of the
terrible things he had done at Cambridge?

Once on shore Robert found a
packet boat loaded and ready to leave for Belgium on the high tide.  Handing
over a few silver coins from his army pay he was able to board immediately. 
Many of his fellow passengers on the small sailing ship were bound for the
impending battle with Bonaparte but apart from saluting his superior officers
Robert made no contact with any of them.  After a clear night of sailing, land
came into view on the morning of the sixteenth of June.  Ostend harbor was
uneventfully entered and the crew made the ship fast to the bollards on the
quayside.

While the spring lines were
being attached, the harbor master informed the Captain that Napoleon’s army had
crossed from France into Belgium during the morning of the previous day.  Not
waiting for a gangplank Robert swung ashore on a line which hung from a yardarm
and set immediately about purchasing a horse.  Fearing he may miss his last
chance for a glorious death in battle against the French, Robert desperately
needed to find Wellington’s army before it was all over.

The passengers on the ship
watched him bartering urgently with any rider who came by.  Eventually a man
passing on a very old grey was game enough to accept Robert’s extravagant offer
of a full bag of silver pieces.  Everyone lining the gunnels of the packet
wondered what had caused the obvious sadness that seemed to surround the
good-looking young man.

Driving the old horse onwards
Robert rode in the direction of the city of
Bruxelles
at a gallop.  He
was tempted to stop for food and rest at the town of Ghent because he was tired
after so much traveling but the thought of his final battle pushed him on.  In
the capital of this most strange county Robert’s exhaustion forced him to take
shelter and food at an inn for the night.  Much to his surprise the local
people looked upon him with the same derision as the American civilians.  They
appeared to be more on the side of the French than the English and their looks
of dissent reminding Robert of the angry population in the small towns in that
faraway country.

When he left the inn during the
late morning of the seventeenth, news of a battle began to filter into the
streets.  Fighting had taken place at a crossroads by the name of Quatre Bras. 
Robert used his limited French to ask the locals for directions to the place
but none of them had ever heard of it.  He wasted valuable time trying to find
a relevant map and by midday he was on his way to join the army.

Riding south, Robert found signs
that the British Army had recently passed in the same direction.  Just like
America, every field was stripped bare and all livestock butchered to feed the
hungry regiments.  No farmhouse or tavern had any food to sell because the
British army had requisitioned it all for their march across the country and
the looks of contempt for his worn-out British uniform were unmistakable.

The sun was passing from view as
he and his completely blown horse staggered into an unknown small town. 
Everywhere he looked there were units of the British military making themselves
busy.

A Sergeant stood by the side of
the road and Robert asked, “Have I missed the battle?”

“
No Sir we had a bit of a go with the Froggies
yesterday but it looks like the big one will be on tomorrow.”

“
Excellent!”

The look on the Sergeant’s face
clearly showed that he could never understand the bravado of young gentleman
officers and the reply from the one sitting on top of the horse that was ready
for the knacker’s yard confirmed his belief that they were all bloody mad.

Realizing that he would never
find his new regiment in the dark Robert decided to sleep half a mile south of
the little town the Sergeant referred to as Waterloo.

Lifting his head from the hard
saddle lying on the grass by the side of the dirt lane, Robert looked around
him.  Everywhere men in red coats were moving ordinance of every kind and he
sensed that this day would bring the big battle that would end his constant
misery.

The old grey gelding, which had
never worked harder in its life, lay dead beside him and he was filled with a
mixture of pity and envy.  As Robert kneeled at the side of the horse to say a
few words of thanks in a prayer he heard a very familiar voice behind him.

“
Good Lord!  That’s Pishiobury’s boy, what?”

Standing, Robert looked up at
the man sitting astride his horse.  “Good morning Sir.”

Arthur Wellesley smiled, “I had
no idea you were here Pishiobury.  I heard you were fighting in the Americas,
what?  If I had known I would have had you billeted properly, what?  What?”

“
May I congratulate you on your title, Sir?”

“
Thank you Pishiobury.  The First Duke of
Wellington, sounds quite good, what?”  Wellesley chuckled, “Who are you with?”

“
The 92nd Gordon Highlanders, Sir.”

“
Well done, good regiment, what?  Come along with
us, I can help you find them, what?  What?”

“
I have no horse Sir,” said Robert casting his eyes
down to the grey by way of explanation.

“
That will not present a problem.”  The Duke turned
to his orderly, “You there, get Pishiobury a horse, there’s a good fellow.”

During the short wait for the
horse to arrive the Duke asked, “How did things go for you in America, what?”

“
Not very well Sir.  They fought extremely
aggressively.”

“
Ungrateful people those bloody Americans.  If it
wasn’t for us they wouldn’t be there in the first place, what?  What?”

At the end of a short but
conversation-filled journey their horses came to a stop on the brow of a hill. 
Standing above the field at Mont St Jean they could clearly see the British
army sprawled out across a plateau just below them.  The regiments denoted by
their distinctive standards were drying themselves in the early morning sun
after spending the night lying in the mud made wet by a summer downpour.

“
Although they looked dirty and disheveled they are
at least rested after a night’s sleep,” said Wellington with a tone of genuine
concern.

Whilst acknowledging the cheers
of his men Wellington pointed and said to Robert.  “Your regiment is directly
in front of us, look there just before the lip on the flat area in the center
of the field.”  Turning to look at Robert the Duke added in a somber tone. 
“That lip is going to be the telling factor in today’s battle.  I looked long
and hard for such a configuration and now we have Bonaparte in the right place
we will see how it works, what?  Please give my fondest regards to General Somerset,
what?  What?”

Wellington was in no way
compelled to give Robert an introduction to his new Commanding Officer and he
knew that such a greeting from the Commander in Chief would stand him in very
good stead.  Wellesley’s kindness provoked fond memories of his childhood on
the Pishiobury estate as Robert cantered towards his new regiment and his fate.

From the high ground Robert
could make out three heavily fortified farm buildings in the depression below
the lip, which formed the shallow valley of no man’s land below.  Noticing the
Union Jacks flying from their roofs Robert envied the British soldiers who were
clearly going to be taking some very heavy losses while defending them. 
Looking beyond the British flags, Robert saw the Grand Army which had been
tugging at his destiny since childhood.  Grasping the enormity of Napoleon’s
forces Robert relaxed,
this is it
, he thought,
no more pain and
confusion,
it all ends today
.

As Robert cantered up to the
regiment their red jackets caked in black earth reminded him of the last days
of his campaign in America at a time when everything had gone wrong for the
British.  Those poorly provisioned and harshly treated troops had died by their
thousands in similar dirt at a place that had the strange name of Baltimore.

He recalled a field of black mud
covered in broken cannons and broken bodies.  In his mind’s eye Robert could
see the carnage as clearly as the day of the battle.  He felt for his poor lads
as he remembered the Americans decimating their ranks in retaliation for
burning the city of Washington just one month before.  They just didn’t like
losing their White House.

‘
Good morning Sir,’ said a heavily accented Scottish
voice forcing Robert back from his daydream.  Looking down he saw that the
stranger staring back at him was a private soldier dressed in a kilt standing
at attention holding the reins of his horse.  The man wore a tall bearskin hat
with a checkered border around the band.  On his shoulders were the black and
white epaulets unique to his highland regiment.  Robert admired the way he
looked.  It was a shame that he was not wearing one of these regimental
uniforms but there had simply been no time to have one made.

Unlike many officers of his
class, Robert treated every soldier under his command with respect and he
clearly wanted to know this man’s name as he replied respectfully, “Good
morning Private? ...”

”
Braithwaite Sir.”

“
Good morning indeed Private Braithwaite. I am
Captain Pishiobury. How are you this fine morning.”

“
I am well Sir,” snapped the well-disciplined
soldier but Robert assumed that like every other soldier on the field, he felt
like running away.  They all knew how destructive the coming battle was going
to be; they also knew that the British were greatly outnumbered and Napoleon had
won most of his battles over a good many years.

“
Where will I find our Commanding Officer?” asked
Robert, as he dismounted.

“
Please follow me Sir,” said another very strong
voice in reply.

By the tone of it Robert guessed
it would be a Sergeant Major and this was confirmed as he turned to find a huge
non-commissioned officer standing before him.

“
Sarnt major Alfrey Sir,” added the tower of
strength.  “Welcome to the regiment, Captain Pishiobury.  Please, follow me
Sir, I will take you to General Somerset.”

Having walked a short distance
the Sergeant Major made Robert’s introduction to General Somerset, his bushy
sideburns and a heavy mustache framing the booming baritone voice as he said,
“Captain Pishiobury’s arrived, Sir.”

General Somerset stood with a group
of his young officers listening to orders from the Duke being conveyed by a
messenger as Robert touched his cap and snapped smartly, “Captain Robert
Pishiobury reporting for duty, Sir.”

“
Good morning Pishiobury welcome to the Ninety
Second, we have been expecting you.  It’s good to see you.  We can do with an
officer of your experience.”

“
Thank you Sir.  I will do my best.  The Duke has
asked me to convey his regards to you Sir.”

“
Thank you for that Pishiobury.”  Somerset pointed
to his trusted non-commissioned officer, “Sergeant Major Alfrey will escort you
to your unit.”  With that he turned to speak with his more senior officers to
ascertain the regimental state of readiness.

Sergeant Major Alfrey escorted
Robert through the troops, who were drying their uniforms and weapons in the
warm early morning sunshine and said, “The lads have heard of you Sir.”

“
By my nickname I suppose?”

“
Nickname Sir?”  The Sergeant Major was clearly
feigning ignorance.  Everyone knew Roberts’s fighting name as he was famous for
it but someone of his rank could never be so familiar with an officer.

“
I’ll bet you are wondering how I got the name ‘Mad
Bob’?”

“
Yes Sir. I was curious Sir,” said Alfrey dropping
the pretence.

“
The good news is you will find out today.  The bad
news is, you’ll be with me when you do.”  It was the automatic response of the
schoolboy prankster that always showed itself at times of great stress.  Humor
was still Robert’s means of defense but his faraway voice and humorless smile
did not match the joke.

Nothing further was said between
them but Sergeant Major Alfrey felt the boy’s obvious pain and wondered what
had happened to cause a death wish in someone who even a complete stranger
could see had everything to live for.