Free True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) by Adrian Goldsworthy Page A

around his neck, the sign of severe loss of weight. His complexion had already been as grey as death and his eyes bloodshot before they got on board. He coughed again, his whole body in spasm, and when he brought his grubby handkerchief away from his mouth there was blood on the cloth.
    The general knew he was dying, and that was why it was so important for him to talk to his younger colleague. Their mission mattered more than the agony of sitting upright, more than the squalor of the voyage in this tired old wine ship, which leaked water through every joint and yet still seemed covered in filth. Only Denilov looked clean, his dark green uniform somehow neat and pressed, his black leather belt shining. The count always looked immaculate, just as he always looked bored, observing other people as if they were insects. The general watched as Denilov poured some of his own wine to add to the pool running up and down the table.
    ‘The English . . .’ Another vicious spasm of coughing interrupted the general. Again he pressed his handkerchief to his lips. He no longer even bothered to look at the contents. There was no surgeon on board, and anyway
    the Tsar himself trusted so fully. The price of talent, he thought to himself, then his smile dissolved into another cough that sent pain through all his body. He recovered, swore wearily and continued. ‘In the end it all comes down to the English. We need to know what they will do. Bonaparte plans to strangle their commerce. He will close off all the ports of Europe to English ships and starve them of trade.’
    ‘It seems a very practical response,’ conceded Denilov, but his voice suggested no more than casual interest. ‘He cannot hope to beat the English navy at sea. He does not have either the ships or the men and it will take years to build them. If he does not control the sea then he cannot send his legions to march into London. So why not hit
les rosbifs
in the pockets.’ Both Russian officers conversed comfortably in flawless French, for they were educated men and this was still the language of culture. Still, the general found the use of such slang more than a little jarring. He wondered whether his subordinate had intended this.
    The general nodded, began to cough again, but then for once the spasm quickly subsided into nothing. For a short moment, he knew relief from the pain. ‘It is reasonable, and now he has overrun both Portugal and Spain and so is able to extend his ban on English trade. All Europe is now closed to them. Again, the question is what will they do about it.’
    ‘We are France’s ally.’
    The general nodded again. He had been with the Tsar the previous year when he had met the French Emperor on a specially prepared barge floating on the River Niemen. The only two doors to the wide cabin faced towards the opposite banks and the idea had been for both to enter at the same time. Napoleon had of course hurried across, and was there waiting for the Tsar. Napoleon always got there first.
    The general had been close behind his ruler, and remembered that his first words had been ‘I hate the English as much as you do’ and how gladly Bonaparte had lapped that up. Maybe it was true. Russia, encouraged by English money and enthusiasm, hadfought Napoleon in Europe and had paid the price in three years of defeat and tens of thousands of dead.
    ‘The Tsar and Bonaparte are friends,’ noted Denilov, although as ever his voice was detached. There was no judgement in the tone, no indication of whether he thought this good or bad, or indeed whether it touched him at all. Still, the general had almost forgotten that the count had been present in the series of banquets following the negotiations. No doubt he remembered the warmth between the young and handsome Tsar and the short, stocky French Emperor. Prussia’s king had been publicly humiliated, but Napoleon carefully cultivated the Russian monarch.
    More coughing, and this time the attack was worse and the